Death on a subway
Carriages are too outdated today in modern days they would appear antique so death decided to opt for something new something more efficient, top-notch, shiny - cheap, so instead of humble horses, or ferrying the river Styx he went to build a subway deep, beneath the river bed but unlike death back in Romance days - Now seems he's worn out, a creased, cardboard cup in his hands jeans too tight and coffee drips run down his chin, the genteel garb, replaced by greasy dungarees no ascot tie, or polished shoes to walk in he sold his high-horses, when depression came "got a ticket for the ride?" he absently asks, scrunching his nose, to cough from his cold again and he's sure, for the next century or so he is bound to make the same trip round and round from the setting sun until the end of time and stops for those that cannot wait for him; who stand; and distract themselves with flickering screens rather than to tit for tat, or chat with him talking in hashtags, tweets, filters; binary and still cannot stop, while death is imminent. Standing right there next to them asking for the fare in cash, but no one pays with change no more "Isn't there an app?" a young man asks, barely taking his closed eyes from off his shattered screen His face, pale; a filter sure will do the trick he's unaware of where he's going on this trip a beggar in the aisle, asking for loose change everyone is too tied to their 5-inch window Without lifting a brow, some step out the door right into a mound that is in the soil of a platform, under construction, is it not? Mass graves are better; balancing the figures. And since then - 'tis only hours, maybe days, and yet amounts a million hours of cats on YouTube the soul is uploaded - the body is transformed into a few billion bits and pieces
Copyright Kieper 2020