We slowly roll from the platform, green metal tankers absorb
the golden sun.
Where does the red in the light come from?
Why does the end of the day bring
The buttery light loves the
the grey stained concrete, and
slicks against the surface close as morning
The broken windows of the Good Samaritan Center
flash orange beside
whitewashed brick and idle
Old warehouses weep paint.
Corrugated tin runs with rust.
I think the sun is in its playground.
Sage waves on rooftops, coal humps in the shadows, diagonal steps descend fat silos
Underneath it all clank! clank! clank! the train wheels.
Then silence as we enter the trees,
the slanting light caught in the leaves,
as it decides whether to leave or stay