A lonely station

There is a putrid smell
from the locked toilet.
The walls spell in charcoal
the names of people
who were once in love.
Someone walks in silence
hastily beyond the signs
ticking time with a clip-clop gait.
They seem moving on
as part of different pairs.
There is a staged performance
of a new set of eyes
trying out their luck.
For a moment, all this seems eternal
like the wait for a scheduled train.
But, far away, like conscience
there is a man sleeping on the bench.
Inebriation or death
it's difficult to judge.
His jugular is hidden
in the pillow of a folded arm.
To my relief, I can imagine
his blood shot eyes
dreaming about a lost love.
A safe world for me.A world
where things could still fail.