A bag by my feet,
I am standing in the hall of a metropolitan train station
Filled with a mix of
Horns and muffled voices,
An occasional shout echoing through the depth of the building.
I read names of foreign cities on a large screen
Of black, orange and green lights,
A technological achievement, I am sure.
I miss
The less flashy letters and numbers that
Used to click and clack
As they quickly turned
Before the words "delayed" or "cancelled"
Would appear in red.
Although the few notes still play the same tune
Before an impersonal female voice cuts in
To announce the arrival of a train
From Venice, Milan or Rome,
Or a departure for Madrid,
It's now a computer-enhanced automated device.
Some luggage makes its way to Platform Fifteen, I notice,
While some first-class passengers brush me by
To be the first occupants of their reserved seats.
One of them lets a "shit" pass her lips
Instead of an "excuse me".
At least some things never change.
Odd, I think. What's the rush?
I still can smell the overpowering Chanel Number Five.
I could take my camera out and
Snap a few shots:
That of an elderly gentleman
To my right,
With a medal dangling from his chest
From some war I presume
Although it could be from receiving an award
That of Best Pastry Chef of the Year 1962.
It would have been the highlight of his life.
He could look distinguished with a tall white hat
Despite the years gone by.
A sepia tone would suit his crisp portrait
Or that of a smartly dressed young woman,
A silk scarf around her neck,
Running to catch
An ever elusive means of urban public transportation.
She may have an urgent rendezvous…
Or she may be late to a job interview.
Or she may always be running this way
Just because everyone else does anyhow.
I would blur the black and white background for that one
But make her image sharp.
A photo must have a message,
Be a metaphor of sorts, I surmise,
Even if sometimes I am the only one who understands
What it is.
Today, I want to purchase a one-way ticket to Istanbul or Athens,
Get lost,
And have no idea what tomorrow
Brings.
But what about yesterday?
Well, yesterday is just that, isn't it?
An overstuffed bag with unnecessary items
To be left behind.
I like to believe I always travel light.
I also could go to a nearby café and strike a civil conversation
With some foreign strangers about to travel home.
I would ask them questions about
Their culture, their traditions,
How they liked their stay here.
It's safe that way.
And it kills time
Before I make my decision.
I am in no hurry.
There will be other trains.
Later.
I prefer, instead, to enjoy my solitude,
And observe people
And imagine their lives
In their own surroundings
As they become characters of stories I may not write.
Well…
Not right away, that is.
I am standing in the hall of a metropolitan train station
Filled with a mix of
Horns and muffled voices,
An occasional shout echoing through the depth of the building.
I read names of foreign cities on a large screen
Of black, orange and green lights,
A technological achievement, I am sure.
I miss
The less flashy letters and numbers that
Used to click and clack
As they quickly turned
Before the words "delayed" or "cancelled"
Would appear in red.
Although the few notes still play the same tune
Before an impersonal female voice cuts in
To announce the arrival of a train
From Venice, Milan or Rome,
Or a departure for Madrid,
It's now a computer-enhanced automated device.
Some luggage makes its way to Platform Fifteen, I notice,
While some first-class passengers brush me by
To be the first occupants of their reserved seats.
One of them lets a "shit" pass her lips
Instead of an "excuse me".
At least some things never change.
Odd, I think. What's the rush?
I still can smell the overpowering Chanel Number Five.
I could take my camera out and
Snap a few shots:
That of an elderly gentleman
To my right,
With a medal dangling from his chest
From some war I presume
Although it could be from receiving an award
That of Best Pastry Chef of the Year 1962.
It would have been the highlight of his life.
He could look distinguished with a tall white hat
Despite the years gone by.
A sepia tone would suit his crisp portrait
Or that of a smartly dressed young woman,
A silk scarf around her neck,
Running to catch
An ever elusive means of urban public transportation.
She may have an urgent rendezvous…
Or she may be late to a job interview.
Or she may always be running this way
Just because everyone else does anyhow.
I would blur the black and white background for that one
But make her image sharp.
A photo must have a message,
Be a metaphor of sorts, I surmise,
Even if sometimes I am the only one who understands
What it is.
Today, I want to purchase a one-way ticket to Istanbul or Athens,
Get lost,
And have no idea what tomorrow
Brings.
But what about yesterday?
Well, yesterday is just that, isn't it?
An overstuffed bag with unnecessary items
To be left behind.
I like to believe I always travel light.
I also could go to a nearby café and strike a civil conversation
With some foreign strangers about to travel home.
I would ask them questions about
Their culture, their traditions,
How they liked their stay here.
It's safe that way.
And it kills time
Before I make my decision.
I am in no hurry.
There will be other trains.
Later.
I prefer, instead, to enjoy my solitude,
And observe people
And imagine their lives
In their own surroundings
As they become characters of stories I may not write.
Well…
Not right away, that is.
Copyright 2011 Alain Millon
