Yo, I’m the shadow in the sewer grate,
spit syllables like rats that navigate the dark,
every bar’s a switchblade carved in the maintenance bay,
where the trains scream my name in third-rail sparks.
Mom’s spaghetti still stuck to the tunnel wall—
a ghost in the echo of every footfall.
I’m the broke token, the un-swallowed pride,
rattlin’ down the track till the end of the line,
loud as a bomb in the maintenance bay,
still underground, still loud as the pain.