I was sitting at the station, I was waiting for a train
when something came to happen that I still cannot explain.
I was reading some short stories, rather bleak and somewhat gritty,
and looked up next to me, here was a girl that was quite pretty.
I thought about the stories, some of which were not so great,
and turned to her and said “you know this train is always late.”
"This train is never late” - thus began the conversation
that ended with two children, starting in a railway station.
She was dressed down, wearing a t-shirt and pair of shorts,
and I had nicer clothes on, having come from traffic court.
She was back from dropping off her car at her dear grandmother’s house,
and had no slight idea that this day she’d meet her spouse.
We sat together on the train, and spoke of trips to France,
though mostly I was plotting ways of getting in her pants.
A nebbishim, she thought, and though he dresses rather
I’ll have one date with him, that’s all, but Mama will be happy.
(That part about my snappy dress is sure to bring a smile,
‘cause Lynda says my strongest point is not my clothing style.)
So anyhow, we rode on, ‘til at Evanston she rose,
and picked her things up, saying “I have got to pack my clothes”
“I’m leaving for a trip to France with mom. – we part within the hour”
(And as she also tells the tale, she still had yet to shower.)
She gave me her phone number, and she leaped out through
and said to herself “perhaps a nice dinner, nothing more.”
But three weeks later, when she checked her answering
she heard the words I left her just that day at five fifteen.
“I want to be the first you hear, the day that you come
And then she thought “Well, maybe this guy isn’t such a hack.”
So ten and three years later, things are going on just
Once I found out that she was right, that train is never late.