One outside, one inside
the station. One at night,
one in the morning.
One shouting, one not.
One man watching,
sick with his belly in a hole.
One outside, one inside
the station. One at night,
one in the morning.
One shouting, one not.
One man watching,
sick with his belly in a hole.

This morning the morning more rural
passed by – cows, grace, grass
and wire –
sun and all that nothing
to do, so I did it (in lieu)





Then I saw my wrinkles for what they are.
This is me. This is my life.
These lines trace every smile I’ve ever smiled,
every worry, every precious hour spent in the sun.
I’ve earned them.
This is who I am.
