Platform

The tunnel has a hollow sound.

The tracks are humming underground.

The clock says twelve, the train is gone.

I’ll probably be here ‘til dawn.

The man in orange doesn't ask.

He goes about his metal task.

He drags the chairs across the grit.

I'm trying not to look at it.

The legs are pointing at the sky.

I keep my head down, acting sly,

like I meant to miss the ride.

It’s warmer than it is outside—

barely.