TRAIN TRACK

Bolted down, a rust burnt frame, like an overcooked french fry The box ,once painted fresh green now covered by and gang art and graffiti, lurches like a stumbling pachyderm against the mid day shimmering sun, The cars's jerk forward banging and screeching brining the three struggling men in to Frank's view as he sat among the brown weeds and oil covered earth. Sounds of flesh under truck tires wet and sucking chicken bones cracked splintered thrown in a huge grinder. Taking it no longer, Frank pushed up from his knees, galloped down the hill like the four legged beast he became He wades in the feeling fresh air on his blood cut knuckles. Through rage and injustice Frank puts the two thug men from a bad early MGM movie down. The first one small, almost underdeveloped with a high forehead and short deformed arms. The other reedy, thin and a natural shark type likes to partner up with other feral human beings to drink the honey pot dry. Frank hoped they had a good taste; he hoped it would be their last.