arrivals

crowded platforms
unknown travellers
one wonders if the journey is the same.
all that is left of my privacy
is the mind.
Its that train:
the one that should have been here
an hour? a day? a week? or years back?
i watch time
move solemnly, unfazed,
likewise my thoughts
of that arrival.
jostled, pushed:
struggling for the tissue
in that bag:
lost among the million
people? hopes?
i wonder
is this it?
the last parcel in the mail van?