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Hanging loose, on his own,
waiting for work
to find him, this too-soon-a-man,
this boy leans against a post
or holds on, back & hands
nicked by barbed wire.
By the roadside, as his future
clamors past, bent double,
(like his father,
puking) at best a pawn
in someone else's game, bloodied
by bullet or lathi charge
Never slipping free, porter's rope
slung round his neck,
not scarf or necktie, but a noose
slowly tightening
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