Image On Glass
I was reared in ruins,
East London brick dust
on lard spread on bread.
Nobody had a ticket out.
My grubby figure
daubed by days of oil and dirt,
a boy by a railroad track.
Trains slid passed
screeching on pumping brakes.
People not from here
going somewhere else.
Once a little girl dressed
in posh clothes,
(I mean, not rough flannel),
jiggles of fancy ringlets
a clean hand waving.
My senses shaking
and shaken,
marveling at the beauty
of those that passed on by.
I told mother,
she shrugged not understanding,
maybe she had yet to learn
my train-yard language
She was a lock-in woman
& spoke only
as a long ignored dog would
if asked about
the meaning of life.
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