Lonely Train Home

No text.
No phone-call.
Nothing.

The shirts keep spinning.
Round and round.

The clock keeps ticking.
Tick. Tock. Tick.

Tock.

The rumbling stops.
The shirts drip drop.

Drip. Drop.

I hang his shirts on the line; my final chore.

Train is due to leave at half past ten.

Door slams. Feet scurry up the garden path. Gate clings shut behind me.

The train is half-empty.

I rest my head on the cool of the glass. The sun shines bright.

Still no text.

Still no phone-call.

Still nothing.