for those who wander, wonder & define life on their own terms

Over the Edge

London Tube Station (640x424)

Today I dipped my toe over the edge, thinking of you and how you slid under.  People will

only wonder why the train is delayed and they have  to wait, but I wonder about how

you might have been.  I know how your story ends, because today when I arrived

for the line the lights were all ablaze to clean up and take your body away.

Everything  is dirty contrast when illuminated this bright.  I waited alone.

Your stop was not my own.  You were alone  too.  Why didn’t you try?

Everyone else was still at home except apparently you, and me, and

that employee.  “The line is down,” he said with regret. He hadn’t told

me about you yet, but I could see it on his face, the way he wept

without tears or emotional display.  No news will mention you

today, or the tragedy of your final breath, a violent death

but not worthy of their words or pen.  You must have

felt so hopeless. Again. Again. Again. And Again.

The train your last friend to hold you close. I hope

you didn’t feel the electricity of that last touch.

Others have preceded you on this journey.

Dozens each year.  But, I’m still here.

Reading your whiteboard epitaph

written in black dry erase:

OUR APOLOGIES, 

TRAIN DELAYED.

 

4 Comments

    • stellanuova stellanuova

      I’m very sorry to hear that. My boyfriend wrote me yesterday and asked me to write a poem as he had this very experience. I see it as a eulogy of sorts. I cried when I wrote it. I wish everyone could be saved, but sadly that is not how this life is meant to play out.

  • stellanuova stellanuova

    Your comment made me revise. 🙂 I realized my message was a bit distorted; however, that’s the joy of poetry, read it how you prefer. I actually really liked your take on the poem.

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