Peripheral Vision

idle men
drop their brown bags
and bottles
adding to the litter
crawling
across the tracks
into the yard
of a shotgun shanty
there mixing and mingling
with discarded pieces
of cars
and washing machines
rusting
in the dust.

passing by daily,
eyes held firmly
to the road
ahead,
or allowed to
wander to the blue
of the sky
or the dark green
of the trees
until—a flash
in the corner of my eye—
a small brown boy's
smile.