Railroad cars rattle to an uncomfortable

stop.  The heartless metal boxcars

release a few late night traveling souls.

The aroma of pitch and diesel fuel permeates

cool air.  Chameleon eyes survey

temporary grounds for displaced

scarecrows.  Torn outer coats, shirts

without buttons, uneasy hats all possess

that insistent hunger common to all.

They walk to the Station Café; steamed

windows, red brick, garbage cans,

hoping for a dollar without prejudice.

They look for eyes to connect with;

a hand to the pocket for extra change.

Tonight, the gazes are down, castaway,

irreverent to man and dust, marking them

as sons of Judas.  They move on.






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