The coldness of the station, the bite came sharp anew
People huddled close together, hoping for warmth
Close, but yet distant.
The destinations different, but the cold still the same.
Fog in both directions closed in the platform.
A flicker in the distance, people move to the yellow line.
The next train might be yours - or theirs - or ours – or mine.
The destinations different, but the fog still the same.
The clock stands high above, marking time having passed.
Every moment gained is lost – as the obscured sun marches on
Some ignore the marching beat, reading their books and papers.
Others check their watches with persistence, in fear of the consequences of delay.
The destinations different, but the clock still the same.
The ground shakes gently and in the distance a call is heard.
Metal on metal. Brakes against steel.
The fog is pushed away and the engine rolls into place.
I waited for the Five-Oh-Four to Boston; but for others this was the one.
The destinations different, but the trains all look the same.
I asked the agent, uniform neat and pressed.
“When will the Five-Oh-Four depart, I really need to know?”
He shook his head and said “Soon,” as he marked time on his watch.
“Is it on-time, is it late? Will it come at all?”
The agent turned to serve other customers with more pressing business than I.
The destinations different, but the customers look much the same.
Another shriek of metal, and the squeal of something new.
I hope. A warm train car. A seat. A coffee. A conversation. Progress.
Express service to the end of the line, but not for me - Boston is somewhere in-between.
Almost alone on the platform, through the glass, I see warmth.
Figures wrapped around cups of coffee, or maybe tea.
The destination was different, but my predicament remains the same.
The clock marched on, well past quarter-till-three.
Train, after train came – but yet none for me.
Bob the salesman, Tom the preacher, Joe the lawyer – my platform friends, all were gone
I see a rat below, playing with an empty can.
The destination is irrelevant; beside the vermin, I stand alone.
The clock ticks.
The fog sits.
The rails came from the past and go into the future.
But here I wait. At a small station, fog obscured.
Waiting for the Five-Oh-Four to Boston.
