Silence
alarm clock, empty bladder, quick swill, shave, neck a cup of coffee; grab his
lunch, out in record time. No kissing his wife goodbye, she complains, it wakes
her. She isn’t a lark. Neither is he. He tells his kids he drives Thomas the
Tank. They don’t believe him. He has to believe. He’s following his father’s
giant footsteps. He wants his own footprints. The noisy commuters crowding on
his train, the guard waiting to give the signal, he slips back onto to the
platform running towards the future as if his life depends on it. The guard waving
his arms, making hand signals at his disappearing back. Damn he’d left his
lunch in the cab!
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