and i trek'd through the pre-dawn cold
skating along the rail tracks,
to boulder jumping a ravine
(where were Japhy's ducks to guide?)
and into a deaden'd grass field.
tapping tip of foot to avoid watery pitfalls
while flanked by rusted railyard
and meth-addled recreational plot;
cat piss'd chemical smell wafts from as
December's north wind fights a toothless perverting force.
the macadame is barren as rainfell desert
and the animals propel by combustion
in effort to scavenge Capitalism's kill
predawn
'fore the burliest awaken with hunger.