Union Station

There is a low rumble,
of trains and lives on the move,
the sound of action,
vague and powerful fills the cavern.

Shadows on the move,
lives, each of them, unknown
and separate, intermingling here briefly
before leaving.

This is the leaving place.
The coming to place,
like some strange purgatory
where everyone knows the destination

and timetable,
alive with purpose and waiting,
they dance
without touching.

About this poem

I spend a lot of time in DC with my work, and generally use the metro to get around. The stations fascinate me. Sometimes nearly empty, sometimes buzzing like a hive. Places of transfer and movement more than places to be.

Tom