there was life left in him;
his shallow-breaths wore
long, dark dusters; collar up.

he may as well be the west-bound
train, the one he was awaiting.
he sat down; Lonely, his seat-mate.

where was everybody to see him off?
a symphony of silence greeted him,
he shifted on the rider's bench.

was he too late? was the train early?
was this his station? his punched ticket?
was his life beginning or ending?

02/26/2008

Posted on 02/26/2008
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan