pullman porter
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.