Stacked Chairs, Empty Track

The last train groaned, a metal sigh,

then slid away, under a black sky

that felt too close. And then the quiet.

Just the hum of lights, a slow riot

of silence. My phone, a dead weight.

I checked it, a performative wait.

The cold crept in, a steady seep,

from the concrete, promising deep

discomfort. And then the sound:

plastic scraping on the ground.

A worker, gray uniform, slow pace,

stacking chairs, filling the space

I wanted empty. Each clatter,

a little proof it didn't matter

I was there. I watched him build

his tower of plastic, my hope killed.

The platform, long and slick with dew.

Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.

Just the empty track, and chairs stacked high.

Pretending I meant to let it pass by.