Some Trains.

Downtown fast Blues player on the street corner
Wheels and deals quick money and taunt hookers and we put up the grate so the homeless people can't sleep outside the theatre.

I hear it drag its metal-awkward self, rough across the deformed asphalt while rain clinks down the gutter with a plastic, tinny, musical quality.

She stamps out her cigarette: standing across the street: Watching.

I wonder if that blanket we just tossed was hers.  Her child's, maybe?

(Maybe.)

The train clatters past on old rusted rails - new train.  Old. Rail. Lines.

Fresh lines scraped and hewn on the worn-out sidewalk.

Plastic doll in the corner.  (We toss that in the dirt outside.)

Rain washes it's dusty face.

The woman across the street lights another cigarette and waits to pounce on the doll.

(She is a Tigress.)

Tucks it under her jacket (unzipped) and runs like a criminal up the wet street.

The street lamp is singing.

We make our own prisons.