Grand Central Station
Phantoms walk across the great room,
stiff in black coats,
a suitcase in each hand
and those ladies in taffeta
and hats with flowers,
maybe even a parasol,
languid and gracefully poised
waiting for a ticket.
I can see the dusty smile
of the clerk who nods his head,
and yes, he has a stamp,
I can hear it stomping time.
The lady cannot run,
her feet like small afterthoughts
below her bellowing skirt,
and the gentleman proper in elbow holding,
soldiers a place in the movement
toward a great and vibrant adventure
of train with elegant dining and sleeping car
of romance in small places
quietly lulled and loved
as towns fly past the window
and cows and see that child waving.
its lovely as a banquet hall for weddings,
and glorious and high beamed still
it is echoing hello and good-bye.
I can hear it eyes wide open
as if time has caught me in a merger.
A new full skirt of beginning
in white lace enters
with a tuxedo love flower dotted youth
and they pass blindly the wooden hallmark
where tickets issued destinations
far beyond a heartís imagining.
Oh yes I do believe,
I believe in new beginning,
but somehow it hurts to see
time so emptied and proud
and loud with memory,
for I also believe in
the spirit of the past.
[This message has been edited by Martie (edited 04-08-2000).]