degrees of minus

Late night on a platform
smells the same in any language,
loneliness bites colder
than degrees of minus,
and thin nylon jackets
cannot contain a heart in hemorrhage.

Smokes' blue,
wreathes a face of shadows
writ by creases of pretense,
seams of failure gaping
grasping, life in slipage 
fading, sliding.

He shuffles our edges of disinterest,
these hardened rails of separation,
where aching hollowness is harried
by the indecency of comfort, 
where assorted refugees from routine 
await  allocated seating
on hopeful journeys' to revival.

Another announcement is ignored,
goes curling into darkness,
we already know of trains
and lost schedules.