22 Mar 2016
At the Train Station
Cold dreary morning,
black cabs in haste load and unload
people with cases full of stories, full of
pale smokey dreams, sad pasts and cautious futures..
and not a smile to be seen.
I curl my fingers around my paper coffee cup,
I watch other fingers restlessly pushing smart phone buttons
I want something else, another reality, a different existence
nothing here is enough.
I eye a good looking stranger outside the cafe, his full lips
firm around his cigarette, his hands shakey
they are knowing hands, hands that have touched many bodies
his long dark winter coat says nothing about who he is
his handsome unshaven face, his knotted tired brows
An abandoned cup is left on my table
my predecessor's name is Ricky
Ricky already left the station,
Ricky had a latte
Ricky had a cheese and ham sandwich with his latte
Ricky crumpled up his waste and left it on the table.
The good looking stranger outside is about to catch his train
he drops his bud on the ground carelessly, not caring to put it out
letting it slowly burn into grey powder ash, into nothing.
I too, know what it is like to be consumed.
Posted by Fatima Matar at 22.3.16