I stand behind the yellow line and write shopping lists for other people. thoughts I shouldn’t harbour catch like plastic bottles in the stones that make the tracks. trains and seasons pass and still they linger: discarded and unmoving. attempts to disregard do little. I work and sleep and they remain. we throw our plastic into bags for trucks to take away and forget. what are we to do with all the rubbish we can’t reach? every track is tainted. does anybody care?
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