I first saw you in the waiting room
where we’d sit every late afternoon
and wait for a train going east out of town,
a view over the city with the sun going down
‘cross the line.

Girl on the train I’ve been watching you
between the crowds the last week or two
but I didn’t get to catch one lasting look,
a scene from the window and a paperback book
passed the time.

I wish I’d seen you in some other place
where meeting might’ve led to romance.
Instead I must hope for once in your face
I may detect a flattering glance.

Girl on the train.
Girl on the train.

So there she goes now hoping to transform
in T-shirt ‘n’ skirt this dreary platform.

Just like the victim of a campaign
by a new retail marketing chain.

Now with a mobile
there by her side,
gently mouthing words,
never tongue-tied.

Girl on the train.
Girl on the train.

Just like the dreamboat of this ageing rogue
who’d tell her she’s from the pages of Vogue.

She could step out of this busy carriage
into his arms then into his marriage.

And walk up the aisle
to catch a big plane,
in time-honoured style
from Gatwick to Spain.

Girl on the train.
Girl on the train.

Girl on the train.
Girl on the train.

Copyright Keith Ames