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Poem	In the shabby train no seat is vacant. The child in the ripped mask Sprawls undisturbed in the waste Of the smashed compartment. Is their calm extravagant? They had faces and lives like you. What was it they possessed That they were willing to trade for this? The dried blood sparkles along the mask Of the child who yesterday possessed A country welcomer than this. Did he? All night into the waste The train moves silently. The faces are vacant. Have none of them found the cost extravagant? How could they? They gave what they possessed. Here all the purses are vacant. And what else could satisfy the extravagant Tears and wish of the child but this? Impose its canceling terrible mask On the days and faces and lives they waste? What else are their lives but a journey to the vacant Satisfaction of death? And the mask They wear tonight through their waste Is death's rehearsal. Is it really extravagant To read in their faces: What is there we possessed That we were unwilling to trade for this?
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