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.