After the Last Train

At the last platform, wind combs the tracks with rain. Neon loosens in puddles, red then gold then gone. A newspaper cart squeals like a gull in fog. Somewhere a vending machine hums its one blue note.

I wait beside a pillar warm from a day of hands, watching windows carry strangers like lit aquariums. Each face appears, drifts, vanishes behind steel ribs, brief moons crossing the same dark water.

The loudspeaker coughs, then offers a name of stations; syllables fall in the tunnel and bloom as echoes. My ticket softens in my pocket, a folded weather map. Tonight every route is a river learning the sea.

When the train arrives, doors open like held breath. We step inside with our coats full of weather. The city slides backward, a necklace unclasped. In the glass, my reflection boards a different life.