Sunday Night

The 11:45 sleeper train has pulled out of the station.
So, too, the 12:10, the 1:15, the 2:25 and the 3:30.

My husband departed promptly on the 12:45.
I gave a wistful wave
as he rumbled off down the track.

And still I wait alone on the platform,
surrounded by bags
stuffed with worry and exhaustion.

Monday night

The black-uniformed station master
leads me to the door
unnoticed in the wall.

It glides open, I step in
and descend silently into oblivion.

Only later in the night will I rise
and wander over to see what’s playing
in the theater of dreams.