PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The girl on the corner is flashing her legs.

The drunk at the station is down to the dregs.

I try not to answer each question that begs,

And I long for a train back to you.

The platform is crowded, with nowhere to sit.

It's dingy and draughty, and quite badly lit.

But I'll bide my time here and put up with it,

As I wait for a train back to you.

My nights have been empty without you to hold.

I've felt lost and lonely, if truth must be told;

And these city streets are not paved with gold,

So I'm taking a train back to you.

The man in the mirror is no friend of mine;

He's balding and puffy, and talks out of line.

He followed me here with a bottle of wine,

And we're boarding a train back to you!

Copyright © Robert Haigh 2019

The winter winds whistle by from bay and sea, as if aggressively making love to one another much like we used to do. A memory that fades while a blackout swallows the light within me. The A train rumbles loudly and shakes the foundation of my home like your touch once shook my world. This stillness brings no rest. I get half asleep. Everything is done halfway now. I am half of what I once was. You were a Sandy-esque hurricane that blew me away only to leave me as scrap and rubble as I struggle to sleep on a Far Rock. 

What reminds you of the loved ones we have when you see or hear some things,

What adventures do you imagine or stories do you tell about them,

Why not express the love for them by showing it instead of hiding them,

It will only make you feel more proud to have known who they are.

When I hear a train I don't hear the train itself but my brother blowing the whistle,

I imagine him standing there inside the train driving it all over the states,

I hear the sound the wheels make as they keep on rolling at steady rates,

I listen to the train but its his stories of his adventures I hear. 

When I see the steam puffing from the train I can imagine the fun he's having,

Traveling all over state to state hauling train cars or people to there destination,

I can imagine him standing in the door way of the train with a big grin,

Because hes experiencing his dream as a great locomotive.

I knocked
on Lydia's front door
and waited
the morning sun

was coming
into the Square
Lydia's old man
opened the door

and stared at me
with bloodshot eyes
what do you want?
he said

is Lydia
coming out?
I asked
who wants to know?

I do
why?
wondered if she'd like
to see the trains

I said
why would she
want to see trains?
he said gruffly

she likes trains
I said
he looked beyond me
at the block of flats behind  

who said
she likes trains?
she did
I said

I work
with fecking trains
all day
she's never said

about trains before
he said
looking at me again
his eyes trying

to focus
we often
go see trains
I said

we went  to Waterloo
train station
the other week
he closed his eyes

rubbed
his hairy chin
and breathed out
a beery flavour

LYDIA
he bellowed suddenly
I stepped off
the front door step

and stood
gaping at him
LYDIA
he called again

he opened his eyes
and stared at me
I detected life
behind the mask

Lydia came
to the door
and peeped under
her old man's arm

this kid wants to know
if you want go see
fecking trains
he said gently

his voice silky
do you?
she nodded her head
yes

can I?
she asked
he looked at me
as if I’d just

stolen his wallet
trains?
he said
steam trains

I said
yes steam trains
she said
we like watching them

he raised his eyebrows
and looked down at her
under his arm
resting on the door jamb

ok ok
if you want go see trains
go see trains
he said

and wandered off
inside
leaving Lydia and me
looking at each other

Waterloo again?
I asked
what about Victoria station?
she said

ok sure
I replied
and she turned
around

to go get
her shoes inside.

From every home I've ever known
I could always hear the distant groan
of trains in passage to their station,
whereabouts of which I've yet to gleam.

Even now, in a denizen's bed,
when star-pierced fog does reign overhead;
the strings of the heart will tighten thus
when the burdened locomotives weep.

The feline, my company, alert -
quite wary of the sounds of this hurt -
responds with a mew and a quiver,
lost in frantic dissonance, yet still.

Planted on pads and prodding the sill
whilst chirping in dulcet tones until
I stir and twist and claw at the air,
and he leaves his perch to lay beside.

Bundled with a bare knee, I commune
with the cat as he tumbles, immune
to my pleas for affection; he doles
out his warmth by wedging between me

and the coziest spot afforded
by the place we share in accordance
with a funny doctrine writ by those
who have need for a presence benign.

Once dull-eyed stares dissolve into doze,
the parcel of fur tarries in pose,
contorted at length while whistles blow
in far, thinning distance, receding.

The night has lapsed into reasonless
morn, where trappings of logic distress
instead of soothe. With eyes chained to lash,
falling, I allow myself haunted

by the slow retreat of tethered steam
that, for a time, had ousted my dreams
and filled all my hollow with echoes
that continue their ring as I wake.