There’s a man on the platform.
A sign with a woman’s name in one hand,
red roses clutched in the other,
a faint smile connects his cold cheeks.
She may not turn up, this name,
and he’ll retreat home alone,
renew the roses to water,
review the train times for another day.
Or, he’ll be greeted, and the two will dine
outside the station, where there’s a special
on spaghetti meatballs and garlic ciabatta,
two meals for ten pounds.
His story, however, ends as I leave,
in limbo of amity and loneliness.
To me, he’ll only ever be,
the man who waits on platform three.