markbousfield

Today the slovenly Winter Sun grew
across the empty train platforms of cold years passed,
lonesome singular lovers hesitating before the call they should make,
the drop of silver or nickel into the cashbox beneath,
finger punched numbers run to faded numerals

etched with the memory of half-dialled confessions,
contacts,
commiserations,
celebrations,
commemorations

chill the earpiece weighted with remembrance against each ruddy cheek,
pensive frost filled breaths whispered reassuringly
into a dial tone before the practised words of 'I love you'
spill out a second too late.