Fortress at the Platform

Train doors sighed closed, a whisper I missed,

left behind in the hollow of a late night,

fluorescent lights slicing the silence.

Chairs scraped, clattering—metal folding into towers,

a fortress erected around one reluctant body.

I watch the workers move in slow circles,

piling each chair like bricks in a wall,

while I pretend to stand still, certain,

as if this wait was chosen, deliberate,

a rebellion staged on polished tile.

Outside, the cold air presses against glass,

a thief in a hurried coat.

Inside, my breath pools between chair legs,

boxed in by the ghosts of trains gone

and the weight of wanting to stay just a little longer.