By Thomas Page

A skeleton of
An overpass flanked by grass
Starting to grow there

“It’s a yellow day”
My dad says as the sun tries
To simulate heat

The train car salted,
Beaten by boots and oxfords:
Mineral collage

Venomous tongues spake
Falsehoods that were hard to break.
How could one forsake?

Lonely beer car rolls
Along the metrocar floor
Away and to me

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