The Wait

The 11:45 is a vibration I can still feel

in the soles of my boots, headed north without me.

The gate rolled shut with a sound like a guillotine,

cutting the street off from the tracks.

I check my phone and nod at nothing,

checking an empty screen so the guy with the mop

doesn't think I'm just sitting here

rotting in the fluorescent glare.

He’s stacking the orange plastic chairs,

four high on the tables, legs pointing at the tiles.

The bucket splashes as he moves,

smelling like ammonia and tired bones.