Heuston Station

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.