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.
