In this city of glass and lights, people wake up.
In this city of glass and lights, people wander.
In this city of glass,
people stop to look at the faces
of themselves.
To check for crumbs on their lips. And wonder.
There is a poem in everything,
even in a life like Union Station.
There is a poem in everything,
in the city of glass and shadows,
where people go to sleep.
Like a tired light,
thinking at rest
about a speeding train,
and the bitter-sweet taste of the pollen
that may never become honey,
in the city
of Union Station,
where people sleep.