Train, train, bus is late.
Boiled and delicate in sun,
someone sings. I wait.

Beside greenhouses,
a gold field twinkles, endless.
I think of Steinbeck.

Crowding, reaching out,
nettles have claws here, and eyes.
Is my mind slipping?

I cry, all messy,
happy tears. His words show me
I am not useless.