The Train Station

The train station of Frederikshavn is my train station.

It’s a silly thought, of course; that is could be mine, but yet it is.

Perhaps I don’t own it, and perhaps it’s not my property, but still a part of it is mine.

My staff. My little shop with over-priced books and clichéd romance novel. My trains. My station.



It’s the train station, where I’ve had to be at seven thirty in the morning because I was cheap.

It’s the train station, where I stood, blurry-eyed, and asleep on my feet, cut-rate ticket in hand.

It’s the train station, where I hid a yawn behind my free hand as I entered the train.

It’s the train station, where I was seen in old jeans; torn T-shirt, because it’d been too early to care.

It’s the train station, where I stumbled through the rows of seat; desperate to throw myself in mine.

It’s my staff, my shop, my trains, my station.



It’s the train station, where I one summer found myself fifty minutes early.

It’s the train station, where I found myself in a blue plastic chair; discovering my library card gone.

It’s the train station, where I got up from blue plastic and entered the shop; despite its prices.

It’s the train station, where I rifted through the books and bought one despite its cover.

It’s the train station, where I looked at the fainting woman and the shirtless man and still bought it.

It’s my staff, my shop, my trains, my station.



It’s the train station, where I sat waiting for my brother; more agitated by the second.

It’s the train station, where we’d planned we’d meet, but where he didn’t show.

It’s the train station, where we hurried from, when he finally came, and we almost missed our ferry.

It’s the train station, where I wanted to strangle him, but simply couldn’t find the time.

It’s the train station, where I realised the irony of meeting at a train station in order to take a boat.

It’s my staff, my shop, my trains, my station.



It’s the train station, where it was summer, but because it’s Denmark it was still cold and wet.

It’s the train station, where I entered the train and found the closest toilet in there.

It’s the train station, or rather the train, where I sat with toilet paper and tried to wipe my feet dry.

It’s the train station, the train, where I gave up and let them stay wet and cold.

It’s the train station, the train, where I took a bad decision. I got a cold.

It’s my staff, my shop, my trains, my station.



It’s the train station, where the buses almost goes from.

It’s the train station, or the bus station, so close, where I took the bus to work.

It’s the train station, bus, where I stood at ten thirty and waited to begin an eleven hour shift.

It’s the train station, where I daydreamed of taking a train and merely go away.

It’s the train station, where I still stayed and took that cursed bus to work.

It’s my staff, my shop, my trains, my station.



It’s the train station, where I in the spring travelled an hour ever so often.

It’s the train station, where an hour’s ride would take me to a writing class.

It’s the train station, where I’d wait for my train, dabbling with thoughts.

It’s the train station, where my shoes would have holes, but I’d smile as I wrote inside.

It’s the train station, where I sat heavy bag included; like an over-grown child going to school.

It’s my staff, my shop, my trains, my station.



Even when it’s not.

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