Ron Carey Poetry
The train was deciding if it would ever move.
In the seat across, a young man, even younger
Than us, was shedding the last of his humanity.
You still smoked then, and reached across
The table to offer a cigarette. In the kindness
Of that moment, both he and I understood
How a person can wear goodness like skin.
The cigarette trembled in his hand, a visible
Sign of the earthquake and fissures within.
You took it back and lit it and placed it
Between his lips, and as you did, he reached
And held your hand, like a lover, or a father
Or a child would hold on to his mother.
And all of this without one word spoken;
One winters morning at Heuston Station,
While the train was deciding if it would ever move.