He visits gangs in the meadow.


From crumbling shelters
of bored youth,
the sigh of a certain train in the distance-
Shapes form on their closed eyelids.


In empty lots, they shout
and pound the earth,
they try to be heard.


Mischief under cold
summer lamp posts.
Cloud breaths rise,

alone again,
out from their metal coffins.


©2014 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net