there’s a six mile track
that runs below the heart
of the city. it pushes
students and workers and fake
bleached trash
to the nightlife, the atriums
that envelop the spinal cord
and enable all function
in a superficial way
that doesn’t seem to withstand
the heels it stands on.

magnificence is an image
that gets demolished
in it’s own furtherance, and the rubble
is buried under a new facade.
a plaque commemorates triumph,
and a seal of failure marks
the age of decline.

in five more years, they’ll all move
west or south to a great new calling.
the tunnels will cave
when all is forgotten.