crumbled in the round

        empty pockets and a train leaving town

        brown colored weight rusty red under crowns

        I dreamed of a roundup along the pastoral fields

        edges where the winter bites like barbwire 

        despair has my ticket to nowhere looking up

        a hunger in my belly fires working it's way into pace

        used all at one chance to play the hobos painful refrain

        with a burning sip of something cheap like grain

        the conductor he's weary stuck out on the line

        pushing for a reason even he cannot define

        keaping the freight train state by state plain

        the smell of coal and cow dung ringing bells

        I mass for holes in my pants and swelling hands

        impossible cold that feeds winter works silver death

        gray old ribbons of gimping open stain catch a breath

        it all keeps the midnight free to roam the search for sun

        sure to pass by the one place anyone calls home

        I check for a poem all crumbled in the round

        just empty pockets and a train leaving town