Last Call Platform

The red tail lights, a fading blush,

disappearing down the concrete rush.

I missed it.

On purpose, I told myself,

the kind of lie that tastes like grit.

The platform stretched, too clean, too bright,

under fluorescent, lonely light.

Then, the scrape.

Metal on metal,

chairs stacked by a tired man,

each screech a punctuation mark

in the silence.

He didn't look up.

Just kept on building

his silent, hollow towers,

around my standing,

stupid form.