The sun was beginning to slip on the horizon as I sat waiting in the infinity of time that is waiting for the next BART train to take me from Oakland to San Francisco. I sat on the platform with my legs stretched out in front of me and with my arms folded across my chest while I  listened to the cars moving at high speed, much higher than I was moving at the moment, out on the highway next to me. The cars sped by in a blur.

A Klezmer band was playing on the street corner as I arrived. Sometimes there is a lone saxophonist playing at the bottom of the escalator. Or a guitar player. All with cases open waiting for dollar bills to be dropped onto the blue velvet.

It is a kind of twilight zone, waiting on a BART train.

Some people queue up at the black rubber rectangles that mark where the train doors will open. Others idly pace from one end of the platform to the other. Pairs of people chatter while singles go into that train waiting meditative stance.

The setting sun cast long shadows along the platform. There are usually fifteen to twenty minutes to wait between trains. Sometimes only ten to fourteen if it’s rush hour. It also depends on the day of the week.

If BART were Bart, I would have probably bitched at him already for taking so long to come and pick me up. But as it is, BART doesn’t care or listen.

I sat and watched the sun sink into the landscape.

The train finally arrived.

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