I live my life in the belly of its engine Another flash of colour scouring buildings Another whoosh of gas and rubber and a flush I disappear between the fold of a blazer and the creasing of work boots Shine captures, glistens high from black peaks and orange skies that stride For the station I disappear into the million eyes of a fly and see everything and nothing at once. The train from Flinders Street to Hoppers Crossing to the 166 bus. The train from Flinders Street to Werribee Station to the 180 or 182 bus. The 48 or 11 tram to Southern Cross station to Hoppers- Crossing-Station-to-the-166-bus/Werribee-Station-to-the-180-or-182-bus. The train from Flinders Street to Hoppers- Crossing-to-the-166-bus/Werribee-Station-to-the-180-or-182-bus. The crown sat on a train seat once. It waited for the good, loyal men to clear the way, and then it sat on a plump seat in a train and chugged away to wherever was ready for some good ploughing and polluting. Gum tree berries shrank back into their roots, or were chopped off, and notes of cash and streaming tears sprouted from the wounds.The ebb and flow of fields and battered warehouses, soccer fields to army bases, a mosque, a forgotten car, a creek beneath a bridge and the drip of remnant petrol, snaking through stones and cracks in space. Jobs were found, out in Country, and loss was found, out in Country. It didn’t start with trains, but they helped. I ride the Werribee train now, and I sit in the seat now, reading the names of the ploughed and polluted off of darkened upholstery, the places where trees were uprooted and people too, and houses and business abound. I live my life in the belly of its engine, I try to remember.