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Rich Furman
At the station
You walk though the train station
when bored or lonely,
and listen to the conductor announce,
in his deep voice, full of promise,
all the places you wish you were going,
and you watch all the people,
you wish you were waiting for,
or that were waiting for you.
Tonight there is a brass band setting up
to welcome some great dignity,
spiritual leader, no, something far more
commercial, a tour group,
dying to see the city of brotherly love.
They don't play for us,
those who dance or cry or just wait,
for the passing of time in silent anonymity.
The rain clouds accumulate outside,
laughing at the black sludgy river,
its mutated fish laugh too
at the absurdity of it all.
The train tracks bend
in a gut wrenching cackle,
and you walk outside,
with no plan,
or reason,
but somehow knowing,
that you never really understand
much of this anyhow.
July 25, 1992
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