Waiting at the Station

.

It’s a fact: whenever an express train 
has hurtled through any station,
the commuters do not perceive
how much older the people opposite
grew while their view was blocked;

nor, when another train clatters past
in the other direction, do they
see it obscure the circle of huts,
the smouldering fires and the men with
spears setting off to hunt for food –

it’s as if standing still’s being only
where you are, not stopping yourself
stepping in front of the horses
of the coach you don’t see arrive,
nor roasting your boar on a spit;

as if waiting for a train is only
choosing between what is and what
isn’t, like believing your paper’s
not a tree, though you’re already
on board, and leaving yourself behind.

.