Platform B

Platform B, six forty-seven.
The man across reads yesterday's paper—
he is already somewhere else.

A child presses her face to the window
and the world outside
presses back.

We are moving, though
it does not feel like moving.
It feels like the fields
are choosing, one by one,
to leave.

At the next stop, half the carriage empties.
The seat beside me holds
the warmth of a stranger
a moment longer than it should.