On the Way to Harfield Station

        The platform is as empty
as the people on the train
and the barber’s chair on Long street.
I board a living capsule
of abortion clinic ads
plastered on the grimy walls;
and promises of love and reparation.
        The death-jerk gets us going
deafened as we leave our minds behind.
The thick rumbling underfoot
leaves us waiting, dreaming,
and traveling just as far as Sisyphus’ rock.
Around the soot I find my voice
is missing in the ballast.
I have none.
        The parking lot across the tracks
reminds me of those tombstones
near my destination’s end;
near the Moorish arches
of the factory, decaying, rotting.
        The cup-bearer shakes it like a sistrum,
a priestess in procession through the aisles.
Another prays opposite from me,
and another opposite from her,
beside me. Or does he sleep?
Do they beg for safety
while trapped in our compartment,
or do they pray for someone else?
Where’s the preacher now,
strutting up and down the line
going nowhere.
        He flicks a blade of grass
from his tarnished shoe,
she clutches at her collar.
I rummage in my pockets
for a missing consolation.
Every platform,
every shade,
every vendor on the train.
“Chips, chocolates, peace of mind;
five Rand, five Rand for salvation.”
On and on and on and–
        The station smells of urine
and the rotten sea;
muck and ash and emptiness
as the strikers toi-toi
down the station hall.
I had to show my ticket early
before passing on to platform eight.
I wait; the inevitable delay.
        I board the next compartment
that will cross the river Styx
thick with scum and plastic dreams.
Around the torn upholstery
I find my voice is missing in the ballast.
        I’ve no more words to give you,
and the carriage floor is full of stars.