Blues.

I stayed and watched as the train disappeared.

Stayed and watched and
waved until my arm grew sore
from all that waving
and hoping
that it might turn back.

Stayed until night came.

I don't know how long it was,
the minutes to hours to hours and on
all them little pricks
of light in the sky
taking their turn
to mock
my optimism
as they shone 
deep in the black above me
until 
eventually that Sun rose on up
to rebuke and reprimand them
for being so cruel.

The morning brought warmth
and clouds and birds and together they chased
the darkness from me, and held me
until I began to grow warm,
warm, soft and lazy.

My arm fell.

Heavy and sore.

I wasn't crying.

I just stood there,
the melody of the whistle a sweet, sad farewell.

Sooner or later,
I turned from that train,
saw the green grass around me and started to laugh
and I ran down the hill
and I chased the old red dog that lives
on the corner near the Hotel,
where my mother used to meet that married man
but I didn't mind,
because I liked to see her happy.

I'm a married man.

Don't look like it.
Don't sound like it neither.
But I'm married
to my memories,
and my hope,
and the way my heart dances
when I hear that whistle,

hoping this time,

it's my train.