“No!” – He said.
The wail in his voice
Hidden.
The tears in his eyes
Unshed.
Boys don’t cry.
“Why?” – She whipped.
The hard in her voice
Cutting.
The whiplash in her eyes
Lashing.
Girls always cry.
The train waited
With bated breath.
She stood strong
On the platform.
He sat small
In the coach.
Porters in rEd
Pouring wItH SWeaT
PaSsEnGeRs hurrying
Lugging tHEir bAGgage
CHilDren wAIling
VeNDORS sHOUting
SeLLinG tHEiR wARe
PouRING hOT tEA
PaSSinG MaGazines AnD eATS
WrAPPed in oLD nEWSpaPERs.
The guard blows his whistle.
About to wave his
Green flag.
Just time for
A last Good-Bye.
She knew she had
To say
Something.
He thought he heard
Her say
Something.
They looked at each other.
Eyes touching.
Not
Trusting.
The guard blew
His final
Whistle.
The things they
Had to say
Were left unsaid.
He sat small
In his coach.
She stood forlorn
On the platform.
The train clacked sluggishly
Out of the station.
-by Rita Putatunda
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