To be reading a magazine in the cavernous station,
the air adorned with the mingled smells of hot iron,
cinders and cylinder grease. A kid in khakis and white
t-shirt, smokes pillowed in his sleeve, drops a dime
into the phone, talks to his girl. They begin to argue.
I flip the pages, no longer reading, just watching
the parade of photos march past. Two suits discuss
the box scores, while an old woman in a flowered hat
fingers rosary beads. The old clock, like the face
of a losing gambler, watches us from the wall. A voice
comes over the speaker, announces the next northbound
train. There is a shuffle of activity. Cigarettes extinguished,
satchels grabbed. I lay the magazine on the bench
and rejoin the world of the dying.