by Gwen Bindas
from her book, Sometimes in Summer (Finishing Line Press; 2012)

The underground in summer
Is home to minor deities:
The god of wind, a metal fan;
The god of thunder, a rumble
From farther down the track.

The stars here are crude,
Light bulbs that glare in a fresco
Of chipped paint and water stained walls.

Above ground, souls stride in the sun-filled streets,
The click of heels meeting cobblestones,
The familiar embrace of humid air.

But below ground, they are a stream of sandals and skirts
Rippled by the facsimile of a breeze,
Attuned to the clang of trolley bells,
False music that rings through the tunnel,
All heads turning, turning.