Intermission

I checked the screen and the time was already gone.

The 12:04 is a ghost I’m pretending to ignore.

I sit on the bench and pull my jacket tight,

looking at my phone like I'm waiting for a text.

The janitor doesn't look up when he passes,

dragging the yellow bucket across the tiles.

The smell of lemon bleach is sharp and mean.

He stacks the plastic chairs in the corner,

the legs scraping like teeth against a plate.

The overhead lights are humming, white and flat,

shining in the wet streaks on the platform floor.