Ward 71

Close packed like lumber
they lie,
Each bed a fairground car
Its owner taking a ride
Through the tunnel of life,

Darkness rises like high
tide
Someone stirs; calls out,
Footsteps pace a polished
floor,

This is the last station
All journeys must reach in
time,
But not yet; tonight there
is only
Silence, and beyond silence
The endless lights of the sleeping
city
May 2012.