Train Station

They hustle, they bustle,
a gushing torrent of muddy water,
not a uniform muddy, like the Ganges
but muddy like chocolate chip milk cookies,
a confluence of shades of brown,
testimony to the hours spent, laboring under the tropical sun,
Like the glittering bands of red and orange and green,
on a war veteran's verdant uniform
they wear their color on their cheeks,
each a symbol of hardship, of strife
but while one glitters in all its glory,
the other is forgotten,
in the torrent of muddy water

Trains pull in hooting like a farting bull,
and smelling like one , too,
they empty many gallons of humanity,
on the grey simmering tarmac,
its high tide at noon on weekdays,
low tide at night, on weekends,
but no matter how torrid the weather,
the river never runs dry,
for there is forever the old man,
with his tattered old bag,
who lies by the east bound track
like the last drop of water,
in an empty sea.