The rain’s collar turned up, boring
into the boy’s holiday day. What,
what, what to do, to do?
All along the long platform shining,
wet-handed pencil hovering,
waiting, waiting, waiting, for
the next green steam train to arrive.
Puffed in a boredom redrawn upon the lines
under the names of golden numbers.
Spot the red clunking hulk that took
a penny and bang! the machine wrote
your name on an aluminium strip. Such
unhappiness the foot-soldier of childhood;
turning on the heels of time, undecided
if enough had occurred to stop.
Platform ticket, wet chewed wetter.
Bus ticket, wet chewed wetter.
A soggy memory pricking the eye
of an unhappy dotage. Sitting bored,
counting on trains of thought to drift away
to that day ~ that day ~ that day.
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