This is where it begins

 

This is where it begins

in a dry creek bed

strewn with litter

the inviting dark

a mystery to follow.

You can go so far

before you feel

the compressed

 rumble

the closing in

of otherworlds

the forgotten weather

under the city streets

beneath the traffic

with your metal torch

illuminating scrawls

the rubble stubbing

shining wet in the thin beam

of light

it might be raining now

and the dry creeks filling

cracks seeping

dripping pipes

you follow the curved bricks

into subterranean grottoes

climbing rusted rungs

to other openings

wary of small movements

scuttling of odd beings

bent almost double

in the concrete veins

of your city

seeking its heart

its peculiar blend

of safety and danger.

You know you shouldn’t

have come alone

but it was impulse

one step led to another

and you pray that your batteries

don’t go flat

that a torrent of water

doesn’t catch you unwares

that you can find a way out

a grate

 in a gutter

Or a plate

that doesn’t open

onto a busy intersection.

It’s unlikely there’s another

creek bed at the end of the tunnel

you could die down here

while life goes on, oblivious,

above

but you're a kid with a curious mind

wanting to know the city’s secrets

what’s at its core

and you’re essentially a loner

at home with the fetid sludge

the possibility of a dead body,

of giant rats

the panic rising

until you find a way

to set yourself free

pushing up on a last century grate

squinting at bleached light

as you squeeze through a drain’s mouth

into the bustle of human traffic

and the mechanics of noise

stink of the sewer

imbued in the fabric of your clothes

happy to have come through

and traversed the underground network

upon which your city is built

understanding

a little better now

that there is more to this place

than can be seen on the surface.

(c)Deb Matthews-Zott