The Boy at the Rail Gate

A Poem by lichanbeni

The morning gloom , the city in steady rain.

That one with the chicken-plucked look"

hair a tufted circle on top, the rest in shabby outfit"

I can't really stop to care about.

I assume he grew up without totaling himself ,

but he is that caught my eyes in this madding crowd.

He seems even to know his place as unworthy striver.

Of the one no one would look away from for long,

He lifts his sack to collect rags, a ticket to buy his bread.

The train was on the run but that would not stop him from collecting every bit of rag.

People by pass pushing, dashing and the other boys smirk before the rain douses

and sweeps it stupidly into the gutter.

I'm half in love with's doing, five, or maybe six he would be.

he's twitching in sublime irritation, cursing maybe the rain.

Raining harder, up again, hard to shelter his soaking head with his sack

but he pretty much manages problem, and now

came the move that got me staring on still.

His twitch becalmed at last, stood

without heeding his friend's

jeering calls, “Aye pagol, Aye pagol” (you fool, you fool)

Stood hunched, not looking up or down,

and I can foretell what is running in his head, this is where

he'll break off, he's going to unload everyone,

But he didn’t react upon their nothingness

and spits, feeling himself filling with what's left:

he took possession of his spirited bad luck for good

and let the rain collect behind his torn shirt and drench body

even when the rain keeps patting at it harder and harder

like an obsolete humiliated hand.

and he turned his back at last on them,

He was not the clown but made those across the track full of clowns you can both see

Juggling thoughts