Riding on the Circle Line

The soldier alighted first,
left his backpack on the train,
all his battles won, waving off
the gardener for one last ride.

He sat contemplating life,
the return of a circle, then met
the gardener’s saturnine eyes
with a half-smile: “All done?”

She nods, joining him on
the empty platform, his dirty
set of pea-green fatigues, her
grass-stained legs all hairy.

He wants to ask her some
dumb question like “What now?”
but she’s already asleep, lost in
a dream of heady meadows.

Gently, he reaches his arm
around her, closes his eyes on this
war-torn world, its cries the dark
hum of the last train home.