The next train east
arrives in fourteen minutes.
Here’s a man among us
wild-eyed and hopping
with enemies in each direction.
He spins
on a heel and kicks back
at the rubbish bin
before leaning forward
to stare at someone
only he can see. For all
we know
he could be fighting
Wounded Knee again:
he’s shouting at the sunshine,
punching space,
while space hits back
so he slips
to the platform’s edge
where he balances
on one foot and leans
across the rails
with his arms spread wide
and he’s swimming
in air for a moment
until he wheels back
to dry land. He crouches
and takes
aim at the invisible, stiffens
his limbs in a warrior’s
pose, and fires off
a cry that serves notice
he’s ready to ride bareback
until the inspectors come
for the ticket
he doesn’t have money to buy.
David Chorlton