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At The Station (Free verse) by Christof
Here, full of people Going somewhere or nowhere, Either hustling for connections Or loitering with a Tennant's Or the old dear collecting for terminal patients, Here I find in the formaldehyde Of damp yellow light one dwelling thing That needs neither ticket nor vending machine: Moss, like a comic moustache That's slipped from above a bank clerk's grin And counts us rattling out and in, The loose change in the collector's tin.

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Ranger62.252.32.159March 16, 2006 8:37 AM PST
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