My Poetry: Waiting for a Train at 7.35

Waiting for a Train at 7.35

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The dark cold
hugs the strangers
standing around,
motionless,
staring at the tracks
waiting for a thought
waiting for a lover
waiting, just waiting.

I look across
the fading station
at the ugly tranny
holding court
with freeks and geeks
who are all discussing
Shakespeare's poems
that he's translated into German
for the Dada scholars.

When the tannoy lady
says something
about the 7.39
from platform four
to Brighton town.

The train arrives,
and I take a seat
opposite an expensive suit
with shades of grey
in his eyes
and yesterday's paper
on his knee.
And I'm jealous...of his shoes
and he's jealous...of my freedom
and I want to ask him to swap
but he gets off
in Moulscoomb
before I can be bothered.

The train doors slide
and metal rattles
on metal beneath me
lights shimmer across the city
as we glide over the rooftops
I can see through the windows
of homes:
people making tea.

Then that tannoy lady says:
'This station is Brighton,
please leave
for other connections.'