by Annie Zaidi

Winter grapes still linger outside the station
Men lurk, women murmur outside the station

Oranges splotched brown with rot, but still
They sell like hot cakes outside the station

Winter was like spring and spring ablaze like summer
It rained all of last year outside the station

He scratches his waist, she lays out blue towels
The end is always near outside the station

Perhaps they are too heavy to pray, or even cry
At night children disappear from outside the station

A memory whipped into batter at the vada-pao stall
I cannot eat for fear outside the station

At midnight, leaning against the skywalk railing
The city’s heart unfurls outside the station

Annie Zaidi writes across multiple genres including fiction, non-fiction, plays and poetry. Her published work includes The Comeback, Bread, Cement, Cactus: A memoir of belonging and dislocation, City of Incident, Prelude to a Riot, and Bantering with Bandits and Other True Tales. She is on X as @anniezaidi and Instagram as @bread.cement.cactus.