‘A picture of a trained eye’
Take a seat while I tell a story about the things of poetry, railway poetry, even better without any words. The image should speaks for it selves.
School’s out and mom pushes me home. It’s the still unbeaten invention of the squatters who live beside the railway line and create their own private transportation by using the track.
Where mother and child probably live; their shackle around a defunct signal pole but above all the sign here I am. Nights sleep under the beauty of railway matters but not before taking a bath.
No, it’s not about complaining though it would be fine if the well-to-do of this country turned a helpful eye instead a blind one. It may serves without any doubt the mind of a poet but that alone is not substantial enough for a change of scene. The romance of literally living almost on the track must be a bitter disappointment unless you’re addicted on rail and even like the train at the doorstep. Unfortunate it’s not worth any words in the tourist brochure, if so there was a sort of extra income for the underprivileged. Have mercy upon but too much is out of place, things are not always as bad as they seem to be. Don’t judge the situation by appearance alone despite the fact being a living dump. Even here money is earned and consumerism plays an important role though on another scale. Behind many cardboard doors the treasures of modern life are hidden. Take a seat but always remember someone somewhere always sits less comfortable.