Missed Train
A sad poem about wanting to be somewhere
The colors sprang out, you know, like they were screaming. I don’t remember Chicago railway station ever being this bright before.
I felt warm, and the people swarmed around me like cattle. I feel crushed. My arm aches. I have 23 minutes to wait. St Louis can’t be too far. I need some rest.
A large man asked me the time.
“Just after half two,” I said.
He walked off without thanking me.
I stood. Waiting. Then, as I looking around, I noticed all the people had gone.
Disappeared. I started to shake, holding my chest.
The seconds on the huge clock continued to click seconds.
A man walked up to me, he was wearing gray, and asked where I was going.
“St Louis,” I said.
The man looked at his gold-rimmed watch. “You’d better hurry,”
“Why?” I asked, wincing.
“You don’t want to be late,” he replied.
Then walked away, leaving me alone.
I fell to the floor. The cold marble beneath wanting to hold me down.
Lying there, looking at the ceiling I saw the grey man return and stand over me.
I tried to stand, but fell.
I couldn’t miss the train, there are grandchildren waiting for me.
More from Harry:
(No offense will be taken if you dislike being tagged for various reasons. Please let me know, and I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.)
