On Purpose

I watched the 12:08 leave from the top of the stairs—

last car going into the tunnel, lights shrinking down.

Turned back. Sat down. A man without pressing cares,

that was what I was building. This end of town,

this hour, by choice. Phone out, the scroll—

same four inches, same accounts, nothing in.

Just something to give the face a role,

something to be doing. Thin

justification, maybe. A worker came

across the tile with folding chairs,

the metal legs dragging their flat claim

on the quiet. He stacked them. No stares

my way. Went back for more. The lights

above the turnstiles going off in rows.

I moved toward the section still lit. The nights

end like this, piece by piece, and no one knows

to ask. I checked my phone. I knew

the time. The exit sign, the track

below it, dark. The same four-inch view

of nothing. No cab money. No way back

until the first train. I meant to miss it.