The 5 `o clock traffic
crawls through
the muslin of November.
And Queen`s Street station
bustles to goodbyes.
Past the haze
of coffee stalls
trains beat their wings
on the violet walls
of dusk,
as the city turns home.
And you and I
will play our game of chess,
defend abstract concepts
in black and white
deceits
or manoveure pawns
to a silent checkmate.
From the worn beige
of the 5.30 direct
I watch crowds scatter
like handfuls of dust.
