~ALFRED CORN~

BOND STREET STATION UNDERGROUND

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                    (London)

A fly-by cinematic apparition
Where window after sliding window past

Frames a supporting cast you never saw
Before—the student’s dreadlocks spilling sidewise

When he laughs and bends his bearded grin toward
The girl with green tattoos and air-blue tube top—

The older person in widowed taupe, who blinks
At the tract her silver spectacles are trained on—

The City-bound executive with shiny
Pink tie and pin stripes angled at odd vectors—

A reddish fluff of curls and rope of pearls
That somehow match the surplus weight, say, “Flo”

Put on this spring when, what, her marriage ended?
She hefts herself up doorward, steps out slowly,

Glares at your stare. Unless you fancied her?
No. Or… Fresh petals on a Maytime bough,

Lyrics once revered that now no longer
Reread you…. You leave them untouched. So what,

Get on, get on with it. But why? Because
You can’t just stand there. Far away, in close-up,
 
They’re filming us, and other eyes are watching.



 

© by Alfred Corn