The crowds take up their positions

on the swept clean concourse

of Lime Street Station, the ballet, the rumba,

the strains of the Viennese Waltz ,

the mad dash of front seated desire, four seats

and small squeezed in table,

the clock

high upon the wall and dominant,

the band master ready to blow the whistle

and the dance begins;

slowly at first, hesitant to let go of the one they love

and who will love them till they get home, the dance forgotten

in a heartbeat of half remembered waves goodbye