top of page
Stack of Magazines

Another Minute

By David Earl

Rocked to sleep on the rails

after a late night with saké,

I missed my stop.

The clock read 13:40. I stepped off the train,

watching its trailing lights as it trundled away

on rapids of gravel and steel

through an ocean of rooftops.

Standing in a station I’d never heard of,

waiting for the inbound at 13:41,

another minute for myself.

An idle chime played from the PA speakers

like a cuckoo’s call, curious and lonely,

backed with a choir of crying cicadas

under the glow of an afternoon sun.

I was at the platform’s end,

walls painted white, aging to beige,

lined with old benches,

red plastic faded to peach.

I sat down, the seat embraced me,

comforting, warm, empty.

I filled my lungs with summer air,

that sweet perfume, like pine boughs,

hydrangea bushes, the river bank,

taiyaki from a corner booth,

pages ripped from that book I loved.

A breeze glided in, ruffled my hair, caressed my skin,

a gentle hand, familiar and soft.

A man with a dark coat, a grandma with a cane,

two schoolchildren, holding hands,

all stood on the other platform.

But no one stood at this side, on the far end

where I stared out, like an old Jizo,

from an island of concrete and steel.

Another minute with the crying cicadas

Another minute in the bitter breeze.

Another minute thinking of you

Recent Posts

See All


Chris Minor


Nidia Lopez Regaldo


bottom of page