rats run under the track
the tracks are rat riddled
we travel on skeleton trains
carting our bones over the river
like cells in blood pumped
around the body; falling leaves
and creaking voiced stations
wait for us
the shopping bags and boys
in nylon suits take up space
left by women of a certain age
encased in proteins and immunitas
wrapped in hope against decay
the throwaway brides fancying
fast affairs in warmer places;
dead flowers in October streams
in Polish the bank advertisement
is the same as the native –
only words have been reshaped
as if all language works one way
discrepancies eradicated
by keen interest rates or photographs
of a telephonist smiling
back through the grubby window
by the shaking of hands
the secrecy of backrooms
and done deals of dirty governments;
the rats run under the track
the tracks are rat riddled
we rattle through on skeleton trains
wait for autumn leaves to fall
for some sign of grace
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