I press my back against the chipped cement of the underpass walls,

the dank saturation wicking through my t-shirt.

The cigarette I bummed off a fellow insomniac

roaming the dark streets in search of an answer

gives off a subtle nightlight glow.

If I squint, I can just about make out

the myriad tags and graffiti images

spray painted on the tunnel walls.

Instinct urgers me to place my left hand

over the street artist’s blue print.

I am in an urban Cave of Lascaux.