I bought this poem out of a vending machine. A very cool vending machine operated by Toronto Poetry Vendors. The poem came wrapped up like a pack of cigarettes. I’d heard about someone doing this with short stories in London, but this was the first time I’d seen it State-side. First time reading Lindsay Tipping, too. Hope to see more of her writing, and more of these vending machines around, maybe with a miniature novel next.
What Was Left Behind by Lindsay Tipping
The trains had stopped working years before. Technology had moved on without them. The cars had all been converted into theme restaurants and live/work artists’ studios. The tracks were ripped up, melted down and sold to a manufacturer of high-quality travel grooming products—tweezers, small nose and ear-hair scissors, nail files.
However, the sad whistle of the train horn. The one that always made everyone restless. The one that drove good men to drink. The one that drove bad women to even worse men. The one that made children question their parents. The one that made parents question their lives. That sound. That is what they kept.
