Hangar Lane: 6:20 a.m. | Anne Britting Oleson
Leave the watery sunrise,
not yet washed over
the scruffy newsagent's
shop front, where
a yawning man in an apron
wheels out crates
of tired oranges:
the street is still
monochrome and cold.
Leave the hotel
where everything you know
too well sleeps on.
Drag the suitcase behind,
the wheels jarring
on uneven pavement:
the fruit man glancing up
and back again
to his charges.
Listen to the echo
of footsteps, down
the ramp until
the tunnel disgorges into
the underground rotunda
of the deserted station.
Buy your ticket
from the machine--
single, one way.
Board the empty train.
Now, go anywhere.