Wrong kind of snow

Wrong kind of snow.

Mother;
clearly upset,
blames herself.
Brother;
annoyed more then anything.
Sister;
retelling humorous family anecdotes,
hoping to lighten the mood.
Nephews;
'Where's Ding?'
the younger;
'Ding, gone?'

'Due to the inclement weather conditions the trains are experiencing delays.'
People sigh,
stare at the timetables,
groan
fidget digits on the phone,
texting
calling
excusing their delay.

The inconvenience isn't what I hate.
Can I say?
Can I talk about such things?
It's reprehensible but,
I'm going to,
you can judge.

The train,
approaching at pace.
Rope protrudes from my chest.
Very thick.
curling and unfurling throughout my innards,
rooted
painlessly.

A desire
heaves towards the tracks.
So constant
so urging.
Have to sit down.
Brace myself.
Try not to think.

Concentrate.

Stop it.

Can't see reality
just the train,
everything else whited out,
the wrong kind of snow.

I hate it.
Knuckles white under the strain,
gripping armrests
they attest;
I want to live!

And yet,
here I am,
Imagining my own funeral.