ticking like a turnstile,
the Metro Gnome
carves soap sculptures
out of cinderblock
in the raven slaughter shadow
of the cathedral clock
thinking of the linear inner city
as a 3-dimensional chess board
worn down from years of repetition
as people hurry by with shopping bags
and trashmen pick up garbage bags,
in electric darkness mutters,
"tsk,tsk,tsk,tsk,tsk,tsk,tsk"......

somewhere in between
the ideal and reality
there's a whole lot of dying going on
in slow motion
and between the frozen frames of daylight
and the night train
comes ticking like a turnstile
the Metro Gnome.