The concrete on the subway floor, wet
from the boots which carry the day’s
weather from above changing the hue of the scent of the memory of that
forbidden cave from which we all have born our deepest memory of primitive
intuition. We mingle in our damp chill waiting, to be lifted to the
arrangement of hope, where time will pay for dreams of slow blue warmth,
Someday our hope, its worth and our dream of what can be
In the dampness
In the musty odor filled dreariness
The door opens as we bound by each other push, for some sign of relief
For some dream
Our dream
To come true.