Poetry Porch: Poetry


by Kathleen Kirk

I hip swing through the turnstile
of the upscale commuter station

where a train takes you farther than you need to go
and you have to circle back

to find your way home.
So many verticals, so many concrete barriers.

Awake, I know public transportation = how will I get there?
Awake, I revisit the stone platitude about the journey

not the destination, but what I remember is a coffeeshop
down the street from the station, where a woman

hung over a chrome-legged stool, asleep at the counter,
and I cared about her, utter stranger.

Copyright © 2014 by Kathleen Kirk.