Four-thirty train reminds me
of crush-packed suitcases leaning
against an apartment door,
all grey in drizzled winter light,
thin hands that have forsaken
former refuges (soft hiding spots
turned hostile and unforgiving
in the yearís tired vestiges)
come to lonely rest on hips,
on arms, anywhere but the seething
no-mans land between two bodies.
No words, just the punctuating click
of a taxi door as I discover
the scenery of departure.