At the Station
Hello, everyone! I know you haven't seen me around for a while. I've been obsessing over the Pittsburgh Penguins and unfortunately, my BoB writing inspiration has a 95% block in the pulmonary artery (in other words, my obsession with it is diminishing as I draw EVERY SINGLE PITTSBURGH PENGUIN ON THE TEAM *pants*). Anyway, I thought I'd give you kiddies a belated Christmas present. A poem! Yay!
But first, I'm just going to say that this year was INSANE in my life. I fell in love with the Pens/hockey in general, I personally met a famous person (at Pittsburgh Penguin at that!), I got a niece, and now, I'm going to be doing all of this drawing that hopefully the next Penguin that comes to town will enjoy enough to take back with him, just like Matt Cooke did. Other really amazing things happened this year, too, but seriously, there have been so many things that I would get bored of writing them all down, and I'd probably forget some of them. Oh, well. =/
Anyways, back to the poetry!
I cross the bridge and the rain pours down.
It's washing away the sidewalks
and dimming the lights from the cars
and it's slicking up the tracks that bring her home to me.
My coat is wet, my collar up
and my shoes squeak on the sealed cement.
The noise is nothing to my ears
when I look out of the rain-bloodied window
and see nothing in the distance.
My hands are deep in my pockets
because the air doesn't want to have them
and the rain looks at me as if it's going to mock me
without breaking its rhythm.
But I go down the steps now
and the drops are coming off my pants
and spilling onto the cement.
I jump the last few onto the landing
and push the door open.
The wind wants to keep it shut, but my will is stronger.
The man who stares at me as I appear
has a cigarette dangling from his fingertips,
and has a beard that's a darker rendition of Santa's.
I think of him now as I stand on the platform.
He's bringing her back to me.
His sleigh's a big black engine with the presents inside those cars.
The man offers me a toothless grin
and I smile thinly in reply.
That was rude of me.
I look down the track again.
Nothing.
I haven't seen her in six months.
I miss her face, her jokes, her voice,
and I miss her presence when she comes
around the corner or into the kitchen.
This train is why I am here.
I look at my watch
and it says she's late,
but I can't will the train to go faster,
no matter how hard I try.
The man's gone, now,
and his cigarette is the only thing left of him.
I wonder cynically if that really is the case.
An older woman appears to me
and she's smiling and pulling a suitcase
that is stuck in the door.
I have to run and get the door for her
because something makes me think that she'd be late
if I didn't help her.
How irrational.
She sits down and asks if she took my seat.
I say no, and it's true.
How could I sit with all of the excitement?
But this damn rain is looking more and more like snow.
My Christmas isn't here yet.
I sit next to the lady.
We exchange some stories, nothing important.
She tells me her name, I tell her mine.
I rub the back of my neck, she toys with a hem.
We say nothing for a while.
I lean back and look to the distance again.
Maybe a light!
I stand and rush up to the posts. The woman slowly stands.
She rolls her luggage toward me
and brings herself with it.
She peers behind her glasses
and shivers in the cold.
I look at her and my fingers dance inside my coat.
Excitement.
It is the train.
I was right.
And I know it has to be her.
She has to be standing, first in line.
Her smile has to be radiating from her face
as she holds her luggage and peeks out the window.
The man stands beside me.
I wonder where he'd been
because he couldn't have been anywhere close.
But he's here and irrelevant
to the fact that I'm going to see her again.
She'll be the first off the train.
It's close now. It's shaking the platform.
The woman looks from me, to the man, to the train,
and the snow is now starting to dust us.
I don't care. The man doesn't care. She shivers.
Why should I bother thinking when I can just act?
I shrug off my jacket and put it around her shoulders.
She smiles at me. I smile back.
The man smiles again, nodding.
He takes a long drag from his cigarette
and goes to sit back down again.
The train has stopped and they're getting off.
I search for her.
A business man,
a few families,
and yet, she does not come.
The woman gets on,
the man is no where, once again,
and the train chuggs off.
I sit down, dejected.
My hands hold my head
and I wonder what it means.
I head back into the station and look up at the news.
My heart stops.
Her train. Her number.
It's derailed.
No survivors.
My vision is blurry
and I sway, dizzy.
How could it be? I've waited so long.
Why did it have to be her,
why now?
I swear under my breath
and a woman swears with me.
I glance over and see the pink luggage.
I see the black suit I could have sworn she said
she'd be wearing.
I looked for real this time.
And she was sitting right there.
She said she was glad she had taken the bus,
that a man said her ticket was not valid,
how impossible it had to be,
the date was right,
the hour right,
but the man smiled toothlessly at her
and said to take the next train,
or the bus would get her there at the same time.
I took her luggage.
We walked out of the door
and the snow was falling lightly.
As we walked through the archway,
all I read from the red ticker atop the arch
was Merry Christmas.
But first, I'm just going to say that this year was INSANE in my life. I fell in love with the Pens/hockey in general, I personally met a famous person (at Pittsburgh Penguin at that!), I got a niece, and now, I'm going to be doing all of this drawing that hopefully the next Penguin that comes to town will enjoy enough to take back with him, just like Matt Cooke did. Other really amazing things happened this year, too, but seriously, there have been so many things that I would get bored of writing them all down, and I'd probably forget some of them. Oh, well. =/
Anyways, back to the poetry!
I cross the bridge and the rain pours down.
It's washing away the sidewalks
and dimming the lights from the cars
and it's slicking up the tracks that bring her home to me.
My coat is wet, my collar up
and my shoes squeak on the sealed cement.
The noise is nothing to my ears
when I look out of the rain-bloodied window
and see nothing in the distance.
My hands are deep in my pockets
because the air doesn't want to have them
and the rain looks at me as if it's going to mock me
without breaking its rhythm.
But I go down the steps now
and the drops are coming off my pants
and spilling onto the cement.
I jump the last few onto the landing
and push the door open.
The wind wants to keep it shut, but my will is stronger.
The man who stares at me as I appear
has a cigarette dangling from his fingertips,
and has a beard that's a darker rendition of Santa's.
I think of him now as I stand on the platform.
He's bringing her back to me.
His sleigh's a big black engine with the presents inside those cars.
The man offers me a toothless grin
and I smile thinly in reply.
That was rude of me.
I look down the track again.
Nothing.
I haven't seen her in six months.
I miss her face, her jokes, her voice,
and I miss her presence when she comes
around the corner or into the kitchen.
This train is why I am here.
I look at my watch
and it says she's late,
but I can't will the train to go faster,
no matter how hard I try.
The man's gone, now,
and his cigarette is the only thing left of him.
I wonder cynically if that really is the case.
An older woman appears to me
and she's smiling and pulling a suitcase
that is stuck in the door.
I have to run and get the door for her
because something makes me think that she'd be late
if I didn't help her.
How irrational.
She sits down and asks if she took my seat.
I say no, and it's true.
How could I sit with all of the excitement?
But this damn rain is looking more and more like snow.
My Christmas isn't here yet.
I sit next to the lady.
We exchange some stories, nothing important.
She tells me her name, I tell her mine.
I rub the back of my neck, she toys with a hem.
We say nothing for a while.
I lean back and look to the distance again.
Maybe a light!
I stand and rush up to the posts. The woman slowly stands.
She rolls her luggage toward me
and brings herself with it.
She peers behind her glasses
and shivers in the cold.
I look at her and my fingers dance inside my coat.
Excitement.
It is the train.
I was right.
And I know it has to be her.
She has to be standing, first in line.
Her smile has to be radiating from her face
as she holds her luggage and peeks out the window.
The man stands beside me.
I wonder where he'd been
because he couldn't have been anywhere close.
But he's here and irrelevant
to the fact that I'm going to see her again.
She'll be the first off the train.
It's close now. It's shaking the platform.
The woman looks from me, to the man, to the train,
and the snow is now starting to dust us.
I don't care. The man doesn't care. She shivers.
Why should I bother thinking when I can just act?
I shrug off my jacket and put it around her shoulders.
She smiles at me. I smile back.
The man smiles again, nodding.
He takes a long drag from his cigarette
and goes to sit back down again.
The train has stopped and they're getting off.
I search for her.
A business man,
a few families,
and yet, she does not come.
The woman gets on,
the man is no where, once again,
and the train chuggs off.
I sit down, dejected.
My hands hold my head
and I wonder what it means.
I head back into the station and look up at the news.
My heart stops.
Her train. Her number.
It's derailed.
No survivors.
My vision is blurry
and I sway, dizzy.
How could it be? I've waited so long.
Why did it have to be her,
why now?
I swear under my breath
and a woman swears with me.
I glance over and see the pink luggage.
I see the black suit I could have sworn she said
she'd be wearing.
I looked for real this time.
And she was sitting right there.
She said she was glad she had taken the bus,
that a man said her ticket was not valid,
how impossible it had to be,
the date was right,
the hour right,
but the man smiled toothlessly at her
and said to take the next train,
or the bus would get her there at the same time.
I took her luggage.
We walked out of the door
and the snow was falling lightly.
As we walked through the archway,
all I read from the red ticker atop the arch
was Merry Christmas.