He Enters A Train Station On Saturday Morning Poem by Jack Worthington

On a cool, cloudy, Saturday morning he entered the station, an hour before his departure
Walls that smelled of time and bleachers made of pine witness to ages passed
Of soldiers leaving, lovers returning, and friends who fade into the fog like a mast
The station sits cold and idle, like a church whose congregation had long ago been raptured.

He boarded the train with his duffel, never looking back
Never having witnessed the goodness of the last
On the damp, dirty platform, the concrete heaved and cracked
Another member of the congregation, at 9: 03, passed through the ether.