Zest Lit Issue 2, October 2013 - Page 105

Hangar Lane: 6:20 a.m. | Anne Britting Oleson

Leave the watery sunrise,

not yet washed over

the scruffy newsagent's

shop front, where

a yawning man in an apron

wheels out crates

of tired oranges:

the street is still

monochrome and cold.

Leave the hotel

where everything you know

too well sleeps on.

Drag the suitcase behind,

the wheels jarring

on uneven pavement:

the fruit man glancing up

and back again

to his charges.

Listen to the echo

of footsteps, down

the ramp until

the tunnel disgorges into

the underground rotunda

of the deserted station.

Buy your ticket

from the machine--

single, one way.

Board the empty train.

Now, go anywhere.