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Drifting

Commuters chat idly in anticipation of the 6:00.

Pigeons alight on silhouetted branches.

A scrap of paper drifts in with the thrust of stale wind.

It circles about the wires

That stretch like sinews in the sky above

The steel railway skeleton, never landing.

It is not green or marked with any significance,

So its pristine and faceless figure wanders unfettered

With a small gust into the sepulchral mouth of the bridge,

And the air resonates with the rattle and call

Of a train that isn’t mine.

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