RE: The train

I'm tired - the old train coughed

and spluttered oil and chip packets where children had stuffed greasy fingers

I've seen a lot in my time - here, remember..

the old lady who died in her sleep on the way back from the cemetery, the buskers who hung hammocks and pretended to be caterpillars, the university grad who cried every night home the year she finished, the day they stopped the train and everyone looked for Betty's engagement ring she lost as soon as she got it, the weird smell that someone discovered was a rotting eel stuffed right down the back of the luggage racks in the last car, the year it was so hot all the lines buckled, the year it was so cold no one made it to the platform as they all stayed at home, the year no one road the trains because of the zombie flu or the bird flu, I don't really know (human frailties), the boy who looked away every time his friends bullied his sister, the six or seven jumpers that lined my wheels with blood, the ticket master who was fired as he never checked the tickets, the football team singing or shouting, the last train with the girl who threatened to knife the boys who came near her, the cherry stains on the seats in summer, the..

For a very long time I wished
To be like the horses in the fields with no masters
To be like the woman with their running shoes
To be the ones that left the tracks and could leave the past behind

And now, here, covered in graffiti
Where sparrows dislodge my rust on the dirt
And artists see in me a different kind of beauty
I'm content in stillness.