In a Victorian train station,
Amonsgt a plowed tile floor
Of long brown benches,
I sat: a brass statue.

I stood in the waiting room
Watching the travelers scurry
About, keeping up in their own
Little rat race.

They would walk around
Through the rows of benches,
Looking at me, or the windows,
Or the clocks.

I would sit in my space amongst
The benches, in my shaft of light
That came down from the arches
In the ceiling, thinking I was content.

Minutes would turn to hours,
Hours to days, days to seasons
Time after time. And then --
You came.

You were so like me: an
Almost brass statue; a not-once
Person, gilded over in a
Seemingly perfect pose.

They sat you right next to
Me; we were like two sides
Of an old coin, spinning in
An empty space of the station.

Your silence was plenty for me.
I no longer looked at the
Scurriers and travelers, but
Instead on you, us, together.

In all the room in a vast station
I was fortunate enough to
Have you placed perfectly
Next to me. Me.

But it wasn't to last. The men
Came to haul to around: to
Kiosks and platforms and
Other waiting areas.

Then. . . I became the fidgeter.
The seasons broke down, to days
Minutes seconds moments,
Moments without you.

And when you came around
Again we both delighted in the
Sunlight through the arches and
Each others inevitable silence.

And when the station closed,
You never had to move again.
There was no where left to move you,
No more emptiness to fill.

So they set us in a park -- by black
Benches with pigeons instead of
Trains. Together we got to watch
The minutes turn to days, and in

Turn seasons.
I never waited again.