The Station

In a certain city of white tenements
and wind-lashed blue banners, I stand waiting
for a train in an empty station.

The wind sends scraps of paper
tumbling down the tracks—
archives of lists,
timetables, directions to…,
sacred texts scrawled on napkins.

In a certain city of white tenements
and wind-lashed blue banners,
I stand waiting for a train—

and unexpectedly, I think of you.
It causes me to sway, gently,
as if nudged by an impatient passenger.

You hurry on,
sit beside the window,
and now gaze out silently
from my eyes—

until the next-to-last station,
where you exit
with the other memories,
each with appointments
and performances to attend.

On a different day,
in a certain city of white tenements
and slacked blue banners,
I stand again in an empty station.

I think of a different day—
I remember us—
and the platform sways, gently.

Suddenly,
I am aware
of the beating
of my heart.