ON THE POETRY OF LAST TRAINS:

Drunk boys ask violently who they are, swaggering in shirt 
sleeves for a place on the last train, fists like first class 
honours degrees, knuckles as white as the drunk woman, holding 
court on the train, brandishing profanities like an honorary 
membership to the gutter. 
“Inside I feel 19!” She shouts perhaps in compensation for how 
she feels about the outside. Hair in pigtails, clothes too tight, 
too loud, a story without a punch line. We pause on our journey 
home to witness grinning boys with arms of tattooed stars herd 
wide eyed girls into the dark, out towards their promised land.

(K)