le métro 
Paris, you are filthy today.

The smell of bleach.
A slippery quai.
The screeching hum of mosquitos
ready to prey.
A man with skinny jeans and cowboy boots
ready to play

A beggar in the metro with a baby latched onto her exposed breast.

Underground illumated dots feel less like traversing space
and more
like intervals...
of nothing. 
Filed under:
poetryparis, transport © 2022
(there are other sarah rose’s, but this is the new one)