FACEPAINT
Worn things, what wears well; the overland
computations of miles and yards, yards and
miles. At the railroad yard, the cars collect
old men - those washed out and ended, figures
of a waiting an and a loss. They stand around,
with fingers clutching cigarettes and collars
upturned to the cold and wind.
-
Smoke curls its wafts and twists, wears well
the time it travels. I am left to ponder :
what I am and where I was last.
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