standing in for the regular station master.
“She’ll be late," he said, punching my ticket,
his peaked cap cocked North on his creamy head.
“I don’t mind, sure we can have a chat," I replied,
“maybe you’ll recite a couple of poems."
"This old train’s a long time coming
and my head’s sweating, my mind’s a mess.
Don’t you know all success will end in failure,
Yes, all this failure is no great success."
“Sounds more like Bob Dylan than you," I say.
“It is," he smiles “and isn’t he great."
The slow train was visible in the distance.
We stood together, looking down the tracks,
the sun smiling on our big backs.
--John Saunders