i miss waiting for the train to pass

rainning dusk in september.
you & me with our hands in our own pockets.
we are coming home from somewhere
as we stand behind the barbershop poll arm
holding us back from crossing the tracks.
like figurines we stand alongside 
men in long black coats
clutching suite cases like scriptures
& bubble gum chewers & people wearing head phones
the size of hotdog buns. 
the train comes into sight quickly
& in my head i list the tasks 
that will carry me to a closed door sleep.
we are taught waiting is something noble.
maybe blessed are those who wait
for the train to pass? you try to talk 
over the increasing train horn's blare
but i forget what you were telling me.
every stop, three shouts. we can almost see
the little man tugging the sound open 
from his private nest. i consider
becoming a train conductor. waiting
waiting waiting. the wheel spinning wild
beneath me. waiting easily slips into wanting
which evolves into needing. the conductor
needing to shove the people off the train.
the street people needing to cross the tracks. 
we needed to amble home & needed to fall apart 
& needed rain to swell into a downpour
just as we reached the alley way 
to our apartment. our shoes needed
to clunk on the hard wood floor
as we took them off. i needed to spend
every day in that town waiting for a train
at least once & if not waiting 
i had to hear them impossible future children. 
all three moans. pictured your mouth 
opening with those calls pouring out. 
what kind of lover was i? a train 
rushes through my ribcage & i stand 
on one side, holding an empty vase.
i am the conductor of a night train
& i pull the clamor long & slow.
i slip into the night & out again. 

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