The Girl on the Tracks

There's a girl standing there,
on the tracks,
with long hair, blue eyes
and an invisible smile.
Her face is a cloud of sadness,
and her skin is cold and soft.
In her hands she holds the edges
of a battered old book,
and her knuckles are white with the strain.
Her shoes point awkwardly,
at opposing junctures,
her toes grip the platform
and her lips are taut.
Her eyes, they are staring downward,
glistening,
and her cheeks,
they are solemn.
It is winter, and the rush of cold air
plays with her hair,
but her eyes remain still.
And the whistle of the conductor roars into the wind,
and the moment is lost in the crowds,
footsteps fading into nothing.
The wheels begin to turn,
a low soft screech.
And from my seat I look out,
and can see, through the glass,
she is still standing there,
the girl on the tracks,
with long hair