Peripheral

The vending machine hums a flat, low note,

while the humidity settles on my coat.

I move to the edge of the painted line,

and he steps out from the pillar's spine.

In the curve of the trash can, the chrome is a lens

where the world pulls apart and the platform ends.

I see his boots, scuffed and heavy and still,

waiting for the tunnel to swallow the chill.