NeuroDivine

The platform wind cuts through my coat,
   My patience wears too thin;
Two hours between each wretched train—
   What state are we all in?

A bank-day hush lies on the tracks,
   The cold seeps through my bones;
The loudspeaker stays deathly mute,
   Ignoring all my groans.

I pace the boards, I stamp my feet,
   I mutter at the sky;
So who designed this dismal plan
   And thought it worth a try?

The timetable reads like a joke
   That no one finds it fun;
A service gap so wide and bleak
   It feels completely done.

The minutes crawl, the daylight fades,
   My mood grows darker still;
I’d trade my kingdom for a seat
   And tea to break the chill.

At last a distant rumble stirs—
   A promise, faint and slow;
Yet still I scowl, for even then
   It’s twenty minutes slow.

Written on Port Laoise station while waiting for my train home after dialysis, today on a bank holiday.