by Patricia Devlin
I hear the train whistle blowing tonight,
With my imagination I perceive
The driver, grabbing a sandwich near by
And carefully not thinking, but blocking
The knowledge of his cargo. What he hauls
Is not his business or concern. He is
Just doing his job; just earning his way.
“If I didn't do it, someone else would,”
He thinks. And then eats his bread and tuna.
We cannot waste. They're already dead. So
Let's use their bodies. Lamp shades. Hormones. Drugs.
If they could speak, surely they would tell us
They would like to be useful citizens.
