WEBVTT

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This is the first poem from the
third section, the total dump

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section.

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The trolley has
stopped long since.

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There is no motor man.

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The passenger thinks he
is at the end of the line.

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No, he's past the end.

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Around him is the graveyard
of trolleys, thousands

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of oblongs tilted at angles
to each other, yellow paint

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chipped.

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Stepping outside, he sees smoke
rising from holes in roofs.

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Old men live here, in
narrow houses full of rugs,

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in this last place.

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