Grey light
oily puddles,
blue 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.

The Porter checks his watch,
schedule folded under a
blue woolen arm.
Shoes worn with polish.
Face lined with age,
weathered with mystery.
A grimace or a scowl
or a look
forlorn in the tedium of this station,
of a place, in life,
trains coming going screeching.
In his station
there is nothing to do
but wait.