A Shanty Called Shawmut

The train shakes me awake.
A straggle of late night faces and I.
The paper rests on the floor from my hands.
Eyes open to see Fields Corner concourse.

What and where am I?
A childlike anxiety takes a quick hold.
Not wanting to ask questions of strangers,
who could possibly get stranger.
When you're lost, the next stop is always the longest.

I step off at Shawmut hoping to find both an outbound and inbound.
I'm hit with a thick mildew smell,
like a family lived there to long and grew into it.
The stairs to cross over to inbound are crumbling.

I sit and stare down the tunnel and listen to the young and arrogant.
Among the constant hard splats of water dripping from the ceiling.
Fireproofing hanging from the beams, and the supports.
A place that seems utterly forgotten in a day that has grown long and old.

The tunnel is foul and endless.
I stare blankly wondering if in my dream I was walking down that track.
A track that supports more of what it is itself.