Rail Thin and Rattling

The six weeks a week.
The three and a half.
The twenty-four seven,
in baggy pants
and an old tee-shirt.
Shuffling towards modernity.

You’re rail thin and rattling.
All bicycle charm.
All bilious green.
All feeling exposed.
With the cemetery toads,
and the freaks in decline.

Weeping on countless shoulders,
for crimes of the past.
For the vagaries of experience.
For the break of a bone.
The turnstile is closed,
and the new day is gone.


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