The Yellow Digger
the railway tracks hum all night like a drunk’s heartbeat and come seven in the morning, the yellow bastard starts gnawing the street — teeth filthy, breath of diesel and broken stone — ripping up clean concrete that never hurt nobody, hunting pipes for a wage so some engineer can feed his kids, pay the
The Snuff Box
he dressed wild as a dream, those striped trousers flashing like railroad tracks under the sun, top hat bowler perched crazy on his head, long coat flapping in the wind off the river, gaudy shirt blooming colours like some mad flower in the grey city streets, eyeglasses swinging on a silver chain, clinking soft against