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  • Down under the train bridge sometimes, where I walk, I see a tough guy coming out of the shadows, talking through the crook of his tattoo sleeve so sweet you want to cuddle up his beaten cheeks, 'cause he's crooning some sweet Ole Blue Eyes tune, (whispering really),

    up onto his own right shoulder, singing so Sunday soft about how she is just too marvellous for words, into the ear of his tiny toy dearest pet Chihuahua,

    just all cuddled up honey-bun-like,

    content, secure and safe, as the train buckles by, 'arattle in the midtown boxcars serrated,

    perhaps cargo-laden heading West, grain or emptiness contained,

    over the train bridge rails,

    as Mr. Tough comes out of the shadows just lost and helpless with love for Miss Tiny, now down at his hip against his ribs, cuddling leather, and the Sunday sun shines down on the happy couple.

    And the day glows on.

    Yes and down under the train bridge,

    just moving out of the rust shadows, he walks past the blue green walls and walks his darling sweetie up the hill of old geological faults where once the water came down and dug deep ravines unknowing,

    and the last boxcar rattles away.

    Sunday. In the adoration. In the tunnel. Down under the train bridge.

    Out to the light.



    (Photo by Susan)
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