116

ONE-SIXTY-EIGHT

The footsteps of the passengers
Coming down from the iron footbridge
Sound like pigeons taking flight
And in fact there are often birds
Flying in this tunnel, at this
Deepest station in the system.
They come in from the cave entrance
That opens onto the breezeless night
Between the hills that look like fake ID
At rivers clobbered now and then by
Police boats, the Circle Line,
And the occasional speedboat, a
Cartoon in a bikini on the bow,
Or maybe a dog, paws up on
The windscreen, thinking,
I chose well, didn't I, Rex.