He waited with her. It was their routine.
Arriving just before the 6:08,
she’d see him standing by the yellow line,
the lonely figure in a Hopper scene.
She’d come beside him in her solemn state
of drowsy purpose, frowning as her fine
blonde hair moved softly with the breeze.
The other dawn commuters, few and far
between, stood back in the forsaken zone
where shadows cross the tracks into the trees
until they flash against the seventh car.
She smelled the metal and the man’s cologne
and felt the sudden rush of shattered air,
the light that settles on her moment there.