Into Stations Poem by Geoff Skellon

I like the way that trains come into stations,
they have a sense of purpose, seldom found
in buses when they reach their destinations:
even aircraft act like they're reluctant
to finally commit themselves,
and leave the spacious skies for friendly ground.

And steamers at their port of embarkation,
they fuss with tug and capstan, rope and chain.
The train commits and act of copulation,
like some expressive lover on arrival
who finally releases,
to cleave the platform thighs of home again.

A railway station for felicitations
and stolen kisses on the evening train
are better, far, than sordid declarations
of love's goodbyes while waiting for a taxi,
or fruitless bus-stop fumblings,
marred by feeble sighs and falling rain.