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.