We are the grey men

We are the grey men
We are the underground men who speed from place to place
Riding the red rocket.
The grey light makes our grey skin softer, like lead,
A dull sheen dancing on our dull surface
As we watch the stops and trains rumble by.
The waspy female voice tells us
That Rosedale Station is next, Rosedale Station.
Our collective shoulders lurch to one side, then the next.
Our grey unsmiling lips purse just one bit more.
We hold our breaths and soon contract
As new sardines enter our can.
We huddle as if waiting for some giant hand to peel back the roof
Unsure if somehow by chance we will be mistaken for our grey skinned neighbour,
Whose turn it is to be taken and eaten, before we reach our destination.
The doors open and we press outward, the crowds pushing us like currents towards some uncertain fate.
We are tin men without hearts.

I climb up the stairs and burst into the living world.
The sun melts off the metal veil
I walk into the street and see people.
The two teens in baggy pants and tattoos wearing sideways hats
Strut down the street smoking cigarettes.
The two young women walk by talking about their cesarean scars,
The two men following with buggies discuss the complexities of car seats.
Two boys in helmets are riding – a bike and scooter next to their mother.
The scooter scoots and I sidestep. “Sorry,” says the mom and yells that he should stop at the corner.
The smell of fresh fruit hits me in a wave as I walk past the market.
The trees in different hues of green bend as if they are breaking in the blowing wind.
From a great height, we are random moving dots no different from those that flow under the earth.
I feel pulled by the hands of underground men to the certainty of grey
But resist by the simple act of opening my eyes and mouth.
Through which, I breathe in the floating seeds of hope.

~ by reeven on May 20, 2009.