Now past drunks at the late station,
past pavements stuck with gum and
roads caressed by wind-swept litter

at the savers, that single pole that
ruminating on the evening spent
I hold every evening in the same
compartment, more or less, past milling
toters asking for spare, the same
crowds, them smelling jackets, clarinet
stations that get empty the same times
muggy glazed nights, as scanty-clad
girls head inward to the city for fun
who must these be, not of us, sure,
Yes, carrying bagfuls that hurt that
by the smelly bin overloaded with
beer cans and assorted junk,

could be a serf working in the farm
a hammer and a sickle later
a shovelboy in a dingy mill,
reading runes by the torch of hope
lighting the hovel by night,

waiting for
the bus that will get me home.