At Knutpunkten

Photo by Timon Studler on Unsplash

Old man weeping at the station,
while you and I hurry on through space
to endless bucks and good luck charms
to charming looks and licks of desire
to one night here and there, to glow
and burn hotter than a welding wire
to mornings cold as unclothed death
and we rush on to avoid the breath

of an old man weeping at the station,
curled up on a wooden bench,
a hundred heavy tears in his beard,
his face burrowed in rugged hands.
Old man weeping at the station
— did I ask him why he wept?
No, I passed and pulled my jacket
up around my neck, went home and slept.