Station

The train station was a cemetery.
Drunk with spirits, another being entered.
I fanned gnats from my eyes to see into his face.
I saw father. I looked and shouted, ‘Father!’
He did not budge, after thirteen years, neither snow nor train,
only a few letters, and twice on a cell
his hoarfrost accent crossed the Atlantic.
I poked his face, his mask slipped as a moment
in childhood, a gesture of smoke, pure departure.