Station
Soaked in grey light
oily blue puddles
shimmer on the platform.
The train is late.
A man shuffles his feet
paper folded under a
brown woolen arm.
The shine on his shoes
would dazzle
in proper light.
A woman searches her
purse -the fare is
in here somewhere.
Keys mimic the sound.
Her dress clings to mystery.
Children playing
the way children do.
Their innocence waning
the way innocence will.
The Porter checks his watch
schedule folded under a
blue woolen arm.
Shoes worn with polish.
Face lined with age and
weathered without mystery.
A grimace or a scowl or
a look
forlorn in the tedium of the station
-trains coming going screeching.
In his station
there is nothing to do
but wait.
poem by Ronald Shields
Added by Poetry Lover
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