Lisa Brockwell

Waiting for the Train

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Early spring cherry blossom by the tracks — so prim

and so dirty, all at once. The bees must be dropping

to their knees. For me, it’s after the harvest, only just but

even so, a different season. There are elderly women

on the platform in beautifully cut coats and expensive shoes.

I know that’s where I’m heading, but not yet. I can feel the sap

humming in my hips and legs; my hair taken by the wind is still

a good thing. You surprise me with coffee and wait with me.

It’s unexpected and lovely, your regard. Window box platonic

but definitely that spark. Like standing in the sun on a bitter

cold day, tasting the froth brim over the top of my cup.

The station master recites where the train is going;

no one cares where it has been. I get on with

the well-dressed pensioners, my hair warm from the sun.