Created this sketch while looking at this picture. 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; her keys mimic the sound her dress clings to mystery. Children play the way children do. 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 station …of a place, in life …trains coming going screeching. In his station there is nothing to do but wait. Creating sketches at the bar tonight.