BY JAN HAAG
CROSSING THE METRO DIVIDE
Vaulting an acre high.
pristine white and green and cream,
brown spider chairs,
three each around each spindly table...
thin row of tables and chairs
on each side of the immense hall
still with the original, small,
octagonal tiles, and a linear
here or there...
I sat alone with the silent, highly polished,
wooden doors lining each
side above the slightly
greener than celadon, square tiles
my unheated Phad Thai
from a plastic carton, with the
I had no experience whatsoever, no emotion,
no thought. It was like
standing before the guru
many years ago. I could never remember a
thing to ask him or tell him.
Struck dumb, I could only
and step aside. Here in
the vasty hall of the old King Street
where Metro had moved in, but kept
this great room so plain,
that even I had to ask if I might cross it
to get a bus
schedule from the room indicated.
"Across there you mean?"
And when I stepped in, the silence, the cool
breeze from vastly distant overhead ducts,
the twinkling lights
that graced the vaults great ribs,
the new swept floor, the emptiness
of this public room,
-- not even one plant --
and I thought:
But there are tables here, I have my takeout with me.
I could sit
here. And I did
Copyright © 2000 Jan Haag
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
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