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WAITING FOR THE MAX
Fallen rain in the slight declivity at my foot;
where the cement has sunk, a little glimmering sky.
Strangers up and down the platform.
I don't want to hear their arguments and their business,
their business.
Out beyond the platform
weeds grow next to the sleepers
rust on dark green brown as iron's rusted brown
I want to be there, one of them
lying in the sun when the sun dries the ground
on the dust and rust lee-side of the track
Or be at lunch
laughing during one of those long long summers
with time and friends to burn.
I don't want to be in this cold,
wearing this awkward, inadequate coat
on my way to small grey walls and complex futility,
I want to look at the ground and see the sky
and walk in the bright underbelly of the stars.
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