A whir and rumbling in the tunnel, lights climbing round the walls. The airborne filth mists and pushes out, the train approaches. Few choices now, says the old Roger to the young nurse. A child in her lap. The peace of kinship, he thinks to himself, the simple and iconic beauty. Please don't leave me now. There's so much chaos here. The dirt of an age, gathering and gathering, and Old Roger the sentry with his broom, clearing it out again. Underground station 122, Hinton Square Park. One hundred and twenty-second home.
Something in his beard catches his eye and he looks down.
Yes, says the nurse. Nearly Ten o'clock. Another couple of runs. We're running late but really it's better that she sleeps now. I won't chance not getting her down at home. Too much on tomorrow.
The Nurse straightens her cap, smiling. The little girl stirs in her lap. Ah, yes, says Roger, pretending to grasp the logic, and then continues, No place for a young one, of course.
He forces a sandy chuckle and clears his throat.
The nurse runs her fingers through the girl's hair, fixes her collar. Roger gives his push broom an
artful swivel, showering soot. What day is today? Would it make much difference, if I were to know. I know all else that matters, thinks old Roger. He knows the times of the trains and every delay. He knows where the dogs will rupture greasy sacks of refuse. He knows where the water penetrates the ceiling. I needn't idle here. Am I alone here? No, no, I do not think I am alone at all. Transit stations are the locus of human freedom, no attachment but to one's self. The question is moot. This is the sort of power she dreams of, the nursemaid, wrapped up in a child's life. A vibration in his soles, creeping up into the laces of his boots. The last train's advance. Would you like to know why I have stayed here, he says to the nurse.
She looks up, taking a hankerchief from her handbag and bringing it to the sleeping girl's lips. The name on her grey official's badge is Ginger. Certainly, but only another time. She look at him pityingly; he is nauseated; she whispers quickly to the child. Emily, is it? How I would like to speak to young Emily, little girl, sweet and
pretty, Emily, Emily. Old Roger tasted the name, he let the name roil on his his tongue, bristling, whinnying. Such a darling name. Happy Christmas, said the nurse, standing. She brushed soot from her dress.
Yes, and to you. And also you, little one, said roger. Emily, did not look up. They approached the paused train as he turned his back, his grey hands folding calused fingers into familiar grooves. He pushes the broom toward the wall. And waits. He listens. But they are gone when he turns back again.

Saturday, Decemeber 31, 2005.