Waiting at the Met

There's a pigeon nesting in the den of the city,
It's dull grey coat reflecting,
The life it sees,
And pollution it breathes.
Dull grey -
Like those who give feeds.

There's a young man at the end of the platform there,
His hair is pink, laced over with green.
A bright coloured reprieve,
They who would preen.
In two years time his hair will be brown,
The mesh and the chains -
Be suits of black,
Deigned to dressing man down.

A group who are hungover,
Girls giggling last night,
Almost asleep,
On benches painted in white.
A long night at the clubs,
Yield only drunken result.
Not least what they'd hoped for.
Dressed up for the roar.

People who are working,
No family time weekends.
They line in the foreground,
Impatient to be where?
They make 20 dollars an hour,
Best spent on their suits.
They'll never have time,
To spend all of their louts.

A couple in their seventies,
On way to the markets.
Smile at those,
All over the platform.
Their various states,
All signs of the cycle,
Things already lived,
By the aged and retired.

The pigeons, they cluck.
Bobbing their heads.
Stuck in routine,
Worn out suits of no colour.
But there's a splatter of pink,
Decking their necks.
A promise of what was,
Coming circle to end.

The colour of life,
Not all as grey as it seems.
If you look closely there is -
The decking of pink.
A squint from you,
Will always bequeath,
Underneath you can find -
The coloured lacings beneath.