Boro Hall

Tracks filled with coal.
Grey maggots sludge to the station.
Oily eyes.
Bars of iron strand wrapped
by grime, tin can signs.
Electric bullets
bleed upon the rails.
Blue, white flashes
leap in joy.
They move, they move
constantly they move.
Faces of quaint horror
press forward in
casually crushed newspaper.
Laying on neatly boxed ads,
they stare at pinched bolts.
Chains ruminating
in counterpoint
to the roar
blistering roar
of the engine.
Press your mouth
like O
against rigid glass.