Last Call

I told the guy at the gate I was waiting for a friend.

The 1:15 is gone, the tracks are hum-less and dark,

but the walls of my apartment are too close tonight.

The janitor drags a heavy chain across the escalator,

a sound like a shovel hitting a stone.

He doesn't look at me sitting on the bench.

He just grabs the metal chairs by their legs

and stacks them four-high against the tile wall.

The screech of the metal on the floor

is the only honest thing left in the station.