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He's shuffling through the train car,
<i>keep moving, that's it sure as this train rocks and weaves.</i>
No one can look him in the eye,
his jacket's too big and it sways loose.

Did it ever fit him or did it always sway
loose and dirty.
Was he shuffling through lost things,
finding this prize among the lost.

Was he lost, shuffling through found things,
looking, looking for other lost things.
He's shaking, trembling for the chance to receive
from the found things their lost bits, their untidy pieces.

He shuffles out, his swaying jacket showing him
smaller than he thinks, smaller than the lost bits.
If he keeps going, his swaying might stop
when he reaches the end.