Nothing else open at this time,
only this one ageing witness to morning weakness.
Yet even the shop at the station’s closed –
“til April”, as though
the station itself were fasting.
In uncomfortable chairs, a man sleeps,
unlikely to remember the morning trains,
and outside the transit of ash to dawn,
a vermilion promise as the streets,
unaided by coffee,
slowly awake.
The Consolations of Writing 