It doesn’t matter

It doesn’t matter if the train is late, held up

for an hour or more on the aimless edge of town.

Signals have failed and explanations

are being offered, but we are sitting in Coach B,

Seats 22 and 23, drinking tepid coffee

from the trolley and it doesn’t matter, we agree,

it’s not as if I am waiting for you or you

are waiting for me at the wrong end of the long journey.

It’s not as if you are on a rainy platform

or I am home alone, wondering

if I should call your mobile phone. It’s not as if,

thinking of me waiting, you are trying

to get through to let me know.

It is not like that.

Our time is stopped.

Your arm warms mine. We are sharing

a slice of time, time held up

for us. We look at it this way and that,

at its finesse, its endlessness.

We admire this time we have

as if it were a work of art.

Just look at this, time on our hands,

your hand in mine. It doesn’t matter,

you say to me, it doesn’t matter

if the train is late.