Invisible Ink Poem by Charles Lara

We walk
the same
ramp
that leads
us to
the train platform
where we wait
for the train
to take us
into the city.
Our bodies
not as upright
as they were
when we
first walked
the ramp
over a decade ago.
Those of us
that have been
walking it longer
are having
a hard time
making it
on time
to board
the train
to take them away.
Some days we watch
from inside the train
while it pulls out
of the station
leaving
the few
the late
the old
behind to wait
and those that
are near
the end
lethargically wave
their fist in disgust
and wait
for the next train
to take them into
the city where
life is wasted
on ink without reason,