Old Man On The Train

Old Man On The Train

 

It seems to me, this morning

that I’m not to enjoy birdsong;

nor poppies stretching out of sleep;

nor rain waltzing with its technicolor dress.

 

My breath has been wrenched

from my lungs. The Old Man

across from me hasn’t noticed

his ember-veined neighbour.

 

Blood-breached maw, whispering:

         I am the grey in your eyes;

         the void in your knees;

         the slowing of your heart.

 

The curtain draws closer yet –

         I succumb to a quiet dread

         and wonder when I’ll meet

         this cadaverous visitor myself.

 

I invite the darkness in to rest

         and stay awhile. But I wake in terror

         to find skinless limbs embrace

         the Old Man’s shoulders.

 

“Beautiful out there, isn’t it?”