Month of Poetry, Day 19

The View from the Train

Where is the poetry
in mountains of scrap?

Generations of junk
thrown down the bank
behind rows of crumbling houses,

A line of white laundry
strung out to a dying tree?

Cities turn their backsides
to the tracks,

Burnt-out factories and
warehouses, a gas pipeline
terminal, with its flare torch,
like a beacon of hope.

Yet there is grace and
beauty, if you look
carefully--ironwork
arched Art Deco-style
over the tracks, an
ancient, abandoned
depot like a tiny
pagoda, and trees

Trees grow up
through mountains
of garbage and
hopelessness, as
if to say, here
amid death,
there is life.