Hang Up

17 Mar

We stand on the platform looking down the tracks as if our collective staring powers will pull this train into the station faster.
It’s frigid. The kind of cold that seeps into the marrow and never leaves you for the rest of your life.
When you’re eighty you’ll remember this winter.
“Every night after the fire goes out and the humid cold pulls to get at your feet, I remember two things: standing on the platform for thirty years, waiting for the train to take me to the job. And the week we spent slinging lead at one another in Bastogne.”
An old man, shabbily dressed, paces in place and mutters something about Revolution calling.
I think: Revolution is for the young. You have no business muttering on about it.
To which he says: you’re a feeble poet. Your mother has drawn a weak circle around you, which you will carry about for the rest of your life. You may think you’re safe within this circle of careful words, but all you are is a fraud with thin skin who fears the brutality of truth.
The train comes.
With it, it brings a rush of frigid air, which cuts at the face, below the eyes.
We queue at the electric, sliding doors.
They open.
We go in shivering.
Not unlike pigs on the conveyer belt sliding toward the abattoir kill floor.


One Response to “Hang Up”

  1. Ava Joe 17/03/2011 at 4:32 PM #

    Hey this is amazing. Answering your own thoughts with his accusations about your failures.

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