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At Knutpunkten, On My Way Home

By Lucas Skalleberg

Old man weeping at the station,

while you and I hurry on through space

to endless bucks and good luck charms

to charming looks and licks of desire

to one night here and there, to glow

and burn hotter than a welding wire

to mornings cold as unclothed death

and we rush on to avoid the breath

of an old man weeping at the station,

curled up on a wooden bench,

a hundred heavy tears in his beard,

his face burrowed in rugged hands.

Old man weeping at the station

—did I ask him why he wept?

No, I passed and pulled my jacket

up around my neck, went home and slept.