A Pome a Day for a Year

Lines of dull white speed along
under carriage and container, they travel away
like discount star light never to reach me again.

Progress, but not mine, broken bodies
lay strewn to sides untouched and
the only knowledge of existence
is the passing of my eyes
over their tattered forms.

The cold of nature, the frozen
empathy held for trinkets and shapes
disregarding misshapen lumps of ebbing life
feels insurmountable
and I join the stairs, with all others,
our stolen glances of shame
our sentences.