Every morning I see
an old man clean
the trains as it be:
more like sweeping
the dirt atop a
self-addressed grave.

And every morning I watch
his eyes and see
twenty-two years
wasted, sitting atop the
infectious waste bins –

Waiting for that next
arrival, to perform the
only task he has ever known.
Even breathing has
become voluntary
in this rodent ridden refuge.

And yet, in his eyes,
I see myself –
in a foul smelling,
pitch black,
metal and tiled coffin:
sitting atop the yellow
and orange concave bins
that shall consume I.