The Train Station of Life

The Train Station of Life

Every morning he is sitting on that bench at the station.
Sad eyes looking down at his feet, locked in fixation.
His ticket clenched in his hand, never stirs from his seat.
We look at each other, passing by, yet our eyes never meet.

Like a chameleon, he blends in, wearing his chair camouflage.
His dog eared voucher, thread bare from gentle a massage.
We pretend not to see him, never paying any attention.
Wouldn’t it be nice if you gave him some consideration?

The open door beckons, the conductor offers his hand.
Will he embark today?  Or stay there stuck in the sand?
This afternoon? Maybe tomorrow?  Possibly next week?
The future doesn’t look rosey, in fact, seems almost bleak.

When you look into his eyes, you expect to feel his pain.
But , like a blind man, all you hear is the wisper of the rain.
Sometimes, in the shadows, I think it is me sitting there.
Other times, your countenance appears, looking so debonair.

No one noticed his shapeless form occupying that space.
Today he was absent, like the wind, gone without a trace.
A transparent fixture, we were dependent upon like a crutch.
When he was there, ignored, we didn’t miss him so much.

With loathing contempt, you ask, “Did he get on the train?”
Why are you concerned now?  There’s no need to explain.
“He should have asked for assistance,”  mute on your deaf ear.
He sat in deafening silence, shouting, and you still couldn’t hear.