Station to Station

by Joseph McCombs

One sobering morning's crawl from station to station:
choking down coffee and my final cigarette,
cursing the onslaught of the too-early hour
that breaks upon me like heavy cement
against my skull. It aches throughout, within.

There's always a chilling wind within
cheaply colored transit stations,
the railway stations where one can wait an hour
watching wisps of smoke spiral from cigarettes
upward, rising into cement.

My mind's that smoky now; I can't cement
one thought. Too many half-reasons battle within
a limited cognition. So many hours
I've tried to calm them, at least make them station-
ary; failing, I seek another cigarette --

but I used up every last cigarette
trying to forget, burn holes in cement.
I should know not to fight, in the morning hour,
internal battles while shivering within
the dank of one now-crowded subway station.

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