The last stop

Everyone gets off before I do.

One by one, gathering bags,

stepping carefully into the light

of their particular lives.

The woman who shifts everything

to one arm at the door.

The man who checks his phone

once more before the cold.

I watch them from the back.

I have been watching

for forty minutes

on this particular train.

I know which ones looked up

when the announcement came.

Which ones already knew.

Which ones were already gone.

There is a comfort in this.

In being the last one.

In having the car to yourself

for those extra minutes

between the last stop

and wherever the train

goes to rest.

The place where trains go.

I sit in the empty car

a moment longer.

The platform lit, deserted.

A vending machine.

A bench.

An exit sign,

green in the quiet.

Everything exactly placed.

Precise as keys

in the right locks.

Certain.

I stand.

I step onto the platform.

The doors close behind me.

I am in the right place

for the first time today.