A boy stares. His eyes,
wide with hunger.
His face streaked ageless,
with coal-tar dust
that has seeped
into his black skin.
As if his epidermis
was also scavenged
from the loading yards.

He stares across,
the rain drenched platform.
At people who arrive,
knowing that they can leave.
He looks at
unfolding umbrellas
reveal laden bodies.
At their luggage.
For signs of wealth,
for coins that may spill
like coal that drops
from the jostling of
overfed carriages.

He looks at bags on wheels
miniature carts,
like crude toys of yesterday
at people at play,
who leave behind
those that must yet carry
old bags like mules.
Where the weight
of each possession is
acutely felt
on the shoulders.

And he knows, as he looks
that the people at play
their belongings light
upon their writs are
those with coin
to spare.

But he holds
his hands out
to the others,
to the slow
plodding mule people.
Because his malnourished legs
(and this he knows too),
cannot keep up
with suitcases on wheels
long enough
to beg for a future.