Painting At the Lake, Edit #1

[Achebe]

[ The title is probably just a placeholder. I've been working on this one for a bit, and am unsure of how I feel about it. I may extend this significantly in the future. Nevertheless, any and all insight you can provide would be helpful. ]

A man waits at the station for a train.
The six o-five arrives at six thirteen,
as it consistently has for a year.

A light is flickering above his head,
while he stares at his shadow on the door.
It opens to reveal a monstrous crowd
all sitting side by side on wooden planks.

Some things of purple with a million eyes,
two legs, no arms; a greenish beast of fur
with  eight-toed feet; and scaly-legged things
that fly around with wings and silver skin.

He chooses not to go aboard, of course,
but takes the six eighteen he's never missed.
As it's departing for a sleepless place,
a worm walks through his brain into his shoe.

Beneath a paper mountain he performs
the task of pushing pencils on a page,
arranging words and markings of a man
that he has never met, except in word.

Subject precedes the verb, and clauses may
conclude with commas in the proper place,
but ev'ry sentence must be fully stopped.

He makes a record of the words that have
been purchased from his neighbour's timely store,
right after those obtained in bets or fights.

From urban rivers to the lake, he drives,
and sits beside the gently lapping waves
to laze around and ease his troubled tongue.
The water's fluid motion, he observes,
and watches wind remove the leaves from trees.

He goes to paint the scene before he sleeps
but only thinks about what you and I
can say across the sea that sets apart.
Some pretty pictures of a polished poo
are all the paintings ever prove to be.

It begins nicely, but from "He makes a record" onward, doesn't make a lot of sense to me. The deliberate disconnectedness of the two parts of the poem isn't working.