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.

Who knows,

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.