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ON THE SIDE OF THE LINES

By Philip Newhouse



I am sitting on the platform
as the last train has left.
I dragged myself here
half-heartedly
as I didn't truly expect to
catch the last train out of
nowhere
and I knew I'd need the
other half
to grieve for what I had missed.

A small child waved to me
from the last carriage, with
an engaging smile.
And I wept with misery
over a forlorn instant of tenderness.

I stood up and shrugged on my
ripped old,familiar,comfortable
coat.
Roughly folded my battered old broadsheet
into my carrier bag;
normally I fold it when I read it,
today I didn't.
I used it as a shield against the
Elements.

I commented that they fix the print well these days,
it didn't run with the droplets of water on the inside pages.
Feelings of more pressing need
interrupt my thoughts
and I trundled off in that direction.
As I left the station,
the Porter told me what time
the first train left in the morning.
I asked him what time the first train arrived.
Didn't care where it was going.