a soot black squall of flint eyed crows
erupts out from the underpass
in unapologetic coughs and splutters
and punctuates the leaden, deadened sky
the hardly faithful ten oh three
whines and grinds
along the aching vertebrae of rusted metal tracks
and slumps into the station like a bourbon mothered punch
disgorges out its malcontented
much resented, life-beaten meal of
waitresses and countergirls and sour, surly sons of
somewhat greyer waitresses
and countergirls
