The train I am waiting for
is ten minutes late
after hitting a pedestrian.
So December darkens.
Each idling car generates
a smokey boa of emission.
The man on the radio
sings purple, dips
like a gull to blue and brown.
Indigo, I want indigo.
Or the voice to call
my remembered name.
The first one to get off
is a man with a white cane.
Finally three passengers
who left their smiles
in the big city.
Listen, I say,
as they slam three doors
and mist four windows.
It hoots, we sing
station to station.
Everything is too far,
there is no other way to finish.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
