Leaving the Station

Leaving the Station Each morning I step from the train and march with the others leaving the station. The weatherman's warned of rain so we're armed with umbrellas, our briefcases swinging. Across from the station there's an old hotel high in the sky. King Kong, everyone calls it. In tall windows old men appear, disappear, reappear. It is August in Chicago and the old men wear overcoats and homburgs so no one can steal them. They light cigarettes, mumble and curse at the daily parade leaving the station. Traffic is thick but even in winter no one looks up since no one can hear them. Donal Mahoney