Ecclesiastes

Oh, Mr Porter.

Alone with old paper cups and cigarette packets,

cold remains of coffee, embers and ashes.

The carriage emptied when the train last pulled in:

evening papers in pockets, used tickets in the bin.

 

Well my journey was to that last station

with its signs saying “Way Out” and “Information”,

the staff that answer as if you were stupid,

the p.a. system that gives the excuses.

 

My mind was too full, never noticed the halt,

‘til the train restarted its rhythm and jolt:

too full of aspirations that only run away

like this train, like childhood, like memories, like the day.

 

And now I’m alone, reflected in the glass,

rushing by the waste of the city I’ve passed:

the slag and the rubble, the chimneys that sneeze;

washing in backyards waving as I leave.

 

They have nothing by the damp, grubby air;

I, a suitcase of memories from yesteryear:

of bridges over danger, of tunnels through fear;

but the suitcase starts to rattle as the memories disappear:

an increasingly unlikely condition of my youth

when I had some confidence in purpose and truth.

 

1991