waiting at the station

the milk
of this moon is upon me
as i sit
on the porch and examine my life.

the trees sway
with a gentle wind.

i hear the train blow it's whistle
in the distance.
three times.

even now, at this late hour
people are on the move, going
places.

going to be with loved ones.

i'm still at the station, waiting
once more for
my train to arrive.