Cafe in the Crypt

Here he lies,
below table 52,
and every time a stiletto jars
into the faded lettering of his name
he winces.

Tongues from different wavelengths
fight to be heard.
He’s trying to sleep,
thank you very much,
he’s six feet under,
doesn’t care much for lunchtime.

Every
twenty
minutes
He gets rattled to the core by the Bakerloo line.

Death settles below their feet,
above their heads.

Every Saturday at 7:40,
ten minutes into the orchestral recital,
a foot comes down
taps out the beat of the symphony,

and the cores of his grey bones run warm.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s