on the platform, the fog

it is new, this,  unfamiliar
the way I spell backward

how you can stand
by yourself in a train station

on the edge of the platform
waiting, for the next ride out

and it is already eleven at night
the fog has made its decent, following you down the stairs

the lovers huddle, flowers aside
you, in a puffed over jacket

wait for the train on our tracks
while others keep moving on the opposite side

on the station, not the metro
wind-blown, fog-covered,
you, look up, look down
then keep looking around.