Leaving

“All aboard,” I heard faintly

amid the hiss of steam and the smell

of smoke and ash filtering through

the still air of the station, standing here,

waiting to board a train that would never come,

would never leave the station again, for the last train

left years ago, decades, long before

the station master locked the door and left himself.

The rails have since rusted over, grown wild with brush

and weed, the windows cracked and broken,

and the paint is faded to dried board,

left now to vandals and to the young

seeking sanctuary there, out of sight, out of view,

finding it, perhaps, among the littered floor

and broken glass, their lives carved or burned,

graffiti’d, loud onto walls gone silent.

And I’m standing here, waiting, listening,

my ears straining to hear the decades gone by

and the stilled voice of a young man, ticket in hand,

a small satchel, anxious to leave

and not come back, as I once left,
seeking fame and fortune someplace else,
and coming home, now, no richer, really, than when I left.

And turning back, I find I’ve missed the train

to take me home to the place I lost in leaving;

that last train left years ago, decades,

leaving me behind, wiser, perhaps, and changed,

different, but listening, now, and wondering.