Tunnels and tunnels and tunnels

a poem - July 2018

“There are concrete stacks”
or so he said, in that language 

we've never mastered. “There 
are concrete stacks that broke 

our backs when we lugged and 
skulked for horizon.” He smiled 

a bit and snapped a finger at a 
memory of his building, though 

a flash of pain made the madness 
sane when he hesitated of the fallen.

“We paid the bills, we paid the lambs,
we paid the girls for all their trouble,

but in the dirt we laid our heads
with the bruising, broken rubble.”

He turned and spat and winked at 
that leaning lady at the bar, but his 

gaze was off to recall and cough 
through the dust where the dreams 

turned into fall. “The tunnels were life,
like veins, through strife, though the

means left a lot to desire.” He cried a bit
while we moved to sit overlooking

the concrete messiah.