Waiting Train

He waits for a train
that clicks and clacks
years from here. But still
he waits each morning.
His cheeks are a pale wrinkly white
and his eyes gloss over with blue;
as though the rail holds a lover
lost to war.

I asked one day what he waits for.
He said that his sweetheart is on that train.
What train? Train doesn’t run here.
Hasn’t for twenty years.

Still he waits for the train.
He listens for the click and clack
of the past to roll up beside him.
I hand him a warm cup of coffee
and sit down on the sidewalk next to him.
He should not wait alone.