the yellow line
behind the yellow line
I stand
watching one train after another
pass me by
what am I waiting for
behind the yellow line?
...
I let each train pass me by
I watch doors open
spewing out stoned-faced people
and then close in my face
still I stand
behind the yellow line
my eyes staring straight ahead
never caring that ten,
twenty, thirty, forty trains
have passed me by
my expression stays blank
not changing even when
ten, twenty, thirty trains
fly past
my hair swept up in the hurried wind
when the trains go by
no, I just stand there
behind the yellow line
till the very last train of the day
the midnight one (would it then not be the first of tomorrow?)
is announced on the station
the pleasant recording announcing
"the last train of today arriving..."
And I finally snap out of my stupor
And walk across the yellow line.

chiiyo's comments :
This poem came to me suddenly, when I was standing at the yellow line at the train station, waiting for my train to pull up, and feeling dazed as it did pull up, with my hair flying around my face. I had not written poetry for a long time before then, that was around mid 2003, and so I was rather surprised to feel an urge to write a poem, so I pulled out my old notebook and started scribbling furiously on it, sitting on one of the seats, whilst all the passengers in the train looked on curiously. I like this poem quite a lot, partially because this was a recent poem, but mostly because of the mood of the poem, this feeling of something hanging in the air, of waiting for something, but not knowing nor caring what it is. I also like the fact that it is based on something very mundane, and yet, when put in verse form, it becomes something very different.

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