OBSOLETE

The rays of the sun slant through unwashed windows, illuminating the

dryness of age in this forgotten place that stands by the side of steel tracks

where weeds now grow; where once great iron locomotives came, paused, then disappeared; where now only the sound of dried leaves skittering along the ground interrupt its sleep.

Benches along the wood paneled walls remain highly polished from

the multitudes of trousers and dresses that once buffed their

surfaces.

Bars of the ticket agent’s window, a patina of age upon them,

still guard a long gone presence that once routinely and officiously

charted the journeys, the count of which befogs the counter.

This forgotten structure, with walls that were once yellow,

green or red, chipped away by weather and neglect has turned

gray now as if to accommodate the modern world by becoming

as one with landscapes of the past.

Yet, to forget so easily this creation of its time as a discarded

relic, would bury all that we were that lives still in the lazy sun lit

dust of memory and where we too will assuredly abide one day.