by Siham Karami
The railway station’s towering old walls,
where broken skylights shed half-hearted rays;
a few lone passengers, meandering souls,
discarded photographs a random wind conveys —
here a machine drops one dim-reddish apple,
while my friend’s father gives her meals he brought.
Their laughter echoes off the iron and marble;
I board behind, almost an afterthought.
Her father waves from the fast-shrinking platform,
my father’s absence like a missing hand.
Through houses speeding past, I feel its phantom —
its amputated touch trails close behind,
and haunts between the eyes, all down the track
as if he knows I’m never coming back.
Siham Karami lives in Northwest Florida and is co-owner of a wholesale technology business, married and mother of five mostly-grown children. After many years, she has returned to writing poetry.
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