Scarlet
 
The train moves; she waves until it
Becomes a dot, like a scene from some
old forgotten movie.
 
She takes a tissue from
her pocket to wipe
 
the still-wet kiss from her
smudged lips. She turns to leave,
 
taking his hand as he steps
from shadows of
the waiting room.

Andrea Bowd

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Andrea Bowd  would be pleased to hear them