the yellow line behind the yellow line I stand watching one train after another pass me by what am I waiting for behind the yellow line? ... I let each train pass me by I watch doors open spewing out stoned-faced people and then close in my face still I stand behind the yellow line my eyes staring straight ahead never caring that ten, twenty, thirty, forty trains have passed me by my expression stays blank not changing even when ten, twenty, thirty trains fly past my hair swept up in the hurried wind when the trains go by no, I just stand there behind the yellow line till the very last train of the day the midnight one (would it then not be the first of tomorrow?) is announced on the station the pleasant recording announcing "the last train of today arriving..." And I finally snap out of my stupor And walk across the yellow line.
chiiyo's comments :
This poem came to me suddenly, when I was standing at the yellow line at the train station, waiting for my train to pull up, and feeling dazed as it did pull up, with my hair flying around my face. I had not written poetry for a long time before then, that was around mid 2003, and so I was rather surprised to feel an urge to write a poem, so I pulled out my old notebook and started scribbling furiously on it, sitting on one of the seats, whilst all the passengers in the train looked on curiously. I like this poem quite a lot, partially because this was a recent poem, but mostly because of the mood of the poem, this feeling of something hanging in the air, of waiting for something, but not knowing nor caring what it is. I also like the fact that it is based on something very mundane, and yet, when put in verse form, it becomes something very different.