The trains stopped coming
twenty years ago.
But still you wait,
hands deep into your pockets
watching the minutes
on a clock stuck
at ten past eight in the morning
from a year only you remember.
I have taken to waiting with you.
perhaps I am the fool.
A quick poem for this weeks Poetics Night at the Poets Pub. Thank you to Bjorn for the prompt.
I feel like my poems are becoming a bit samey at the moment so I might give this prompt another go in a bit. See if I can write something a little less mournful.