"the garments" by Tony Iantocsa

thought ontrain numberninety-fourthat I'd meetsomeone up thefactory-swampcoast hearingpeople speakthrough the mileswithout knowingwhat their wordsmean althoughthis is my languageand the hurtis bigger thana sun's daggerthrough automaticdoors I was afraidto look throughwhen they openedon the car exhaustof someone who'sleft the garmentsof this worldlimp on the floor