Someone's yard goes all the way up to the train tracks
So a kid grows up with the scythe edge of a train's screech slicing through the night
It's not a bad sound but it's a big sound
Filling up his dreams with distance
Down the street
The Junk King quilts together dormant sheets of metal into purpose
Her sweat drips, earthy and marble-rich,
To be swallowed up by retreating rust
The kid meanwhile is now an adult and, in between day jobs and barely realized dates,
He still dreams of the iron cormorants
Slicing away at a sable, cloud-mottled sky
The hum of the city blankets him through sleep
And the vibrating puddles in the street outside
Sing them, longingly, to home.