By Thomas Herr
Hopping the hot boxcar
Sizing up his new neighborhood
Searching for the queen of the whores.
Packs of dogs bark to the beat of the train.
Long forgotten by his mommy
A poet, disgraced
The dogs were set upon him from the start;
Having waited patiently for the command
to commence to killin’,
They finally done him in.
And his tin can rattles with the others on the grimy boxcar floor.