Brotherhood at the Station

There's a sense to it,
A raw anticipation,
That it's just over the next hill,
With crisp light and solutions,
To it they all come bounding,
Dropping suitcases,
Setting in on that abolishing embrace,
Everyone cries,
They always cry,
Not for the hole in my pocket,
Not for the keys I am missing and the love that eludes,
Behind everything I cannot lift,
But for each other,
As I wiggle my finger through the freyed cloth and look at my scuffed shoes.