Underneath the Tracks

Buttoned up khaki coat,

creased dress pants,

and the meal handle on his briefcase

stinging hsi skin in this sharp air;

the atmosphere is void from

life,

from noise,

and from movement.

His face is ghastly hallowed and his sunken

eyes are rimmed with dark circles as he

is immersed in the silence of this platform,

closing his tired eyes in desperate hope he might

hear the unusually comforting noise of a

distant engine,

his thinning faith

escaping him and wilting into

dry, cracking

petals that join the others

as the harsh wind carries it onto

the empty tracks.

His dress shoes tap impatiently for

the car to roll upon these tracks,

for a moment where

he is not pathetically

train stationed,

futilely waiting still for

you

to loudly

appear

and swiftly carry him to

unknown destinations.