Buildings of the Underground

i sit on a block next to the famous twins

where a child so much newer has taken their place.

around the buildings of the underground,

a heaviness swallows the space.

the twins are tattooed with names of souls who flew from here,

i do not know a single one.

footsteps make their marks around me of those who stay grounded

they move with such ease posing only for thee.

air seems unmoving.

next to the past

lingers the now.

a smorgasbord across the way where people stuff them selves full.

a field of the west that allows us to fill up on all we think we need

because we never have enough.

but if our names were written on the buildings of the underground,

i wonder if we would feel the need to do the same.

mr jean shorts poses in front of the flying arch,

the screens point at the emptiness of the long lost twins.

at what? at what? at what?

ms white shoes takes a smiling selfie in front of late lauren.

ms sunglasses poses with her hands on them, claiming as hers.

the camera goes click.

just as fast as the lights went dark for them.

take it. click. again.

they walk off with their purses.

i can see the caption already.

“always remember”

but you’ve forgotten the weight the names carry.

for all they get from you is the need of attention to show that you have.

tons of nothingness press down from above

despite weight being lifted from the ground.

but i suppose it has sunken in.

rooted under, and that is what lingers beneath my feet.

rain pours above,

and i am covered by a tree,

next to the thousands of twins

that no longer speak.