the mommy of all places

Everyone gets here by train and every train pulls into Central Station.

And after a twenty-minute, post-airport-affair (past industry, along motorways, and under exurb towers), your train pulls in there too.

Doors open and you follow the gush down the down stairs from platform to tunnel beneath.

Free your bag or naiveté, commuters and locals squiggle off though it--it, the tunnel you all gushed into.

While the double pump of the station's architecture flushes departers your way, the  floor that slopes up and the ceiling which sinks in offers a directional even initiates can souse out, urges you up and through the station's entrance, for now your exit

--The mommy of all places, you move through it like daddy.