By Thomas Page

Lone basketball on
The side of the train track, with
Party of litter
The train is a display
Of the olfactory, some
Strange, fake vanilla
Barbed wire o’er the
Fence by my train window, spikes
Shaped like lit sparklers
The sky complements
Itself with orange and blue hues
Bleeding into dawn
Graffiti on concrete walls
Flanked by gravel and
Dead winter maples

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