Platform fifteen at 4:33. Upper deck, green vinyl sleek seats.
Cue north suburban scenery.
Quaint. Sun setting pink on a middle class neighborhood.
A church and a strip mall and an out of place green and white fast food establishment.
Most excellent wait service.
“Big” Mac is an overstatement
Forty-five minute walk toward some liberal art writing retreat on a cement stream littered with trees. An hour and a half is all we can spare. Not enough to walk. Call a cab. It doesn’t show.
We give up.
We get distracted.
Circle three sidewalks and a parking lot. Make the short journey one square block.
See a bank and an empty gas station. Perched above pines a pale cuticle shaped satellite. Astral decor for centuries. Accessory to everything.
Skin looking good underneath a waxing “Wolf Moon.”
The train station is deserted.
A vagabond talks to a dark man mopping.
The train does not arrive.
An old-fashioned clock tells the time. A big clock with both hands points toward “panic.”
Quickly calmed down -Sunday schedule reads that we are to leave at 9:00.
Seconds smoke by until there’s one last cigarette.
At 8:55, we're sailing south on once green, now burgundy, sleek vinyl seats.