Waiting for the next train

There is always plenty of space
on the long stretch
of platform
between you




and what's coming.

It will surely come
to take you
where you need to go,
if you wait
and wait
and wait
and wait
and wait
--not that
you can choose not to--

because you stop waiting
only when it comes
or when you find something else
or when you forget--

So you wait.

You may stand
first in line,
on the precipitous edge of the platform
where you expect
the precise location
the door will be
when it arrives.
Right where you are,
ahead of everyone,
first in line.

You may watch
the tracks that stretch
far
into the
vanishing point,
trying to make out
if the lights you see in
the distance are a train's
headlights or wishing stars.

You may pace
the length
of your patience
and count
the steps you take
before you
catch yourself
glancing back up
at the empty tracks
where the train is not.

You may take a seat
when your legs give out
on a grimy tiled floor
you lean against
an equally grimy wall,
but you know that
it is not where you
are meant to stay.

You may take in
the view from where you are
beyond the dull gray
there are trees and there is sky
beyond the safety railings
there is risk and there is life;
engines break down, and
difficulties are technical,
but one thing is certain:

The train will come,
and you,
you will move on.