under the bridge

at night when the long-time-coming-rain
is peppering the roof sliding
down the corrugations and filling
the tank for the summer
I think of the people under the bridge
preparing for bed at 5 in the afternoon
their mattresses blankets and bags
a few inches from the wheels
the grease and the headlights
and the clatter of trains overhead 
ceasing only at midnight
and starting with the dawn  
and the footsteps of the people with jobs
hurrying past the sleepers
their numbers never changing
including the dog curled up at their feet

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