The new game is called Train Station.
Everyone starts at the station.
Outside it is always raining. .
Faces blurred like pensioners
Waiting at the Gare St Lazare
The men wear fedoras
While the women hover near shadows
In raincoats smoking cigarettes
The train you’ve been waiting for never arrives
While the one you’re urged to get on
Never departs. Stranded in a state
Of limbo. Both early and late
Neither here nor there
You spend all game looking at routes and maps
With ravenous envy
Your kids are dangerously bored, scrolling apps
Tearing open bags of chips
Every day you buy another ticket
Just in case this is a real place
And not some elaborate ruse
Everything you have is no longer necessary
Your ID, your passport, your money
None of it is good here
None of it means anything
The object of the game is the opposite of Monopoly
First person to give everything away wins
Your houses and hotels. The old brass shoe
Your name, your legacy, that hard earned truce
You’ve brokered with god.
By the time the last scrap of self is handed over to the banker
No one is there to collect a trophy
And where's the fun in that?
The game doesn’t end so much as melt
Into a shared sense of collective doom
After you’ve finished playing Train Station
Everyone decides to play Airport.
But it's getting late
Halfway through, you quit.
You put on your shoes
You tear up your ticket