By Chris W.
Date: 12 August 2000
Clean Spot
It's a wet night...the downpour hasn't let up.
He stands alone on the platform,
his only protection from the rain
a ratty overhang supported by beams more rust than metal.
His wool coat scratches against his neck,
and with the cool humidity he breathes,
his loneliness seems to be augmented
as he focuses on these acute sensations.
His late night at work has him missing the mass of human traffic
that normally clogs this place.
He thought that might be nice: no fighting for a spot in the aisle
(a seat on the train was a pipe dream),
but he's realizing only now that that daily battle
occupied his mind enough to keep him from thinking
of the empty apartment he was always headed for.
Alone here now, uncomfortable in this wetness,
it's all he can think of.
The Northbound train rushes past,
the metal-to-metal din grating on his ears.
But he is used to such clamour...
it matches the dank and dirty domains he spends most of his life in.
His office is nothing more than a tiny, mildewed room with a desk.
His apartment nothing more than a water-stained collection of walls
surrounding a bumpy mattress on a dirty carpet and a sink with a leaky faucet...
the building itself houses more rats than humans.
Funny what scenes or sounds can epitomize one's life.
He feels slightly depressed that the sound of metallic friction
epitomizes his.
The train's scream begins to die away,
but it makes a slow transition to another sound.
Something more subtle and light, yet still metallic.
Footsteps...on the grating of the stairs that lead to the platform.
Definitely female, for they lack the heaviness
of a man's spiritless and tired footfalls.
As she ascends, his first glimpse of her astonishes him.
First the lovely blonde hair, '50's style curls and shoulder length.
The beautiful locks frame a face, punctuated by soft red lips, that emits compassion and empathy, and with her first glance towards him,
he briefly believes her empathy is for his own plight in life.
As she ascends the last steps, he takes in the rolling curves of her body
that defy the jagged geometry of this place.
She strolls towards him, and the wet air that had annoyed him before
now carries to his appreciative senses her scent of beauty.
Overpowering the stagnant and rusty odor normally present here,
her sweet fragrance swarms about him, making him dizzy.
She glows, entirely out of place here,
as if a goddess had deigned to walk among the unworthy creations of man.
Not gifted with much romance or creativity, he likens her
to the clean spot on a dirty rug where one has just tried to eradicate a stain.
But in his grungy world, any place without filth is a small bit of heaven.
Suddenly, the Southbound comes to a rumbling halt in front of them...
he hadn't even noticed it's approach.
The doors open and he, trying to remember how to be a gentleman,
allows her to enter first.
He enters the car after her, and sees her next to the third seat on the right.
They are alone in the car, and she asks, "Like some company?"
Whether the offer comes from boldness or pity, he does not care.
"Sure," he says, for a moment spent with such clean purity
is enough therapy for a year's worth of dirt.
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