Leaving the Station
Each morning
I step from the train
and march with the others
leaving the station.
The weatherman’s warned of rain
so we’re armed
with umbrellas,
our briefcases swinging.
Across from the station
there’s an old hotel
high in the sky. King Kong,
everyone calls it.
In tall windows
old men appear,
disappear, reappear.
It is August in Chicago
and the old men wear
overcoats and homburgs
so no one can steal them.
They light cigarettes,
mumble and curse
at the daily parade
leaving the station.
Traffic is thick
but even in winter
no one looks up
since no one can hear them.
Donal Mahoney
