Geometry

Each day I pass the engines heaving in the rail yard. They are old bulldogs. Sometimes I get off at the station to listen to them sigh awhile. Though they are alive I never see them move, as if in perpetual preparation for a grand exodus. Or are they trapped and tormented beasts wheezing out there last days?

Some days I pass by, wishing I could feel the wind and hear their sighs. But the solid transparent portal holds me back, knowing that I might jump were it to open. Instead I watch, imagining their soft baritones.

I follow the tracks with my eyes. Below a man walks along them collecting what he considers valuable. I wish I could be down there with him, rooting through the urban decay. A junkyard of stories, watched over by sleepy bulldogs who can protect their treasure no more than I can free them.

The trains are left behind me and I am left watching the geometry of the monotonous graffiti bubble tags yearn for creative inspiration.