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.