Year
Groaning men
and tracks
of women who know
the carnal gaze
of tattooed jazz
in deep bass
as we’re heading down
a heated core
the violent shore
of tribal pound
a prophet’s sound
that says...
we're
we're
m
e
l
t
i n g
down a hole
of earthly flesh
with three stops left
Note: written for the dVersePoet prompt, "Subway."