In the 70s, in London, I lived for a while
In an old, cramped, single-bed room
Above the underground Central line.
Lying in the dark I could feel below
As the tunnel filled with passing strangers
Being carried home from a long day:
A faint rumble would grow till it quivered
Then shook the narrow bed like a tremor,
Blurring figures on the digital clock,
Jangling wire hangers in the closet,
Buzzing pill-bottles on the table.
And I thought of that cold, dark river
Of air below being pushed out ahead
Of the train, and manholes breathing out
That earthy, sour, underground odor
Into Soho alleys, as the rattling
Carriages clattered through echoing space
In the tunnel, down there, beneath my bed.
Some nights, awake in the early hours,
Long since the last train had passed,
I could still sense this dark space
Below the foundations of the old building,
Waiting under tons of earth and rock:
Nitre crusting the blackened walls;
Scrabble, plash and scuffle of rats.
And even now, thirty years later,
Living on the other side of the world
In a quiet country town by the sea,
Sometimes, sleepless in bed, I feel
The dark tunnel still below,
Echoing drips through an unlit night,
Waiting to carry more passengers home.
