Ely Station

Ely Station by Sian Croose

The waiting room smells of bleach

Of warm newspapers and tired food.

The mopped floor a memory

Of a Polish boy on the minimum wage

And the hope of something else.

 

Lean your head on the window.

Outside the greyness hangs in patches,

Mist and rain like wet washing,

The odd standing figure on the opposite platform

In another film,  not yours.

 

The light reduces towards evening.

Minutes drip away,

Steam sticks to the walls

And the sad shoulders of the man at the next table

Hunch a little more.

 

Through the glass,

Three smokers exhale in different directions.

Inside, the woman with calls to make

Finds her place in the world.

It’s not here.

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