This stop next.
This stop here
is empty,
save for benches stickered with gum
and trash cans bolted to cement.
The sign for this stop,
this stop here,
is bright with paint over its faded letters
This stop is next
to buildings with fences as high as the windows,
buildings with windows as dark as the tracks
of the train that brought me to this stop here.
Here there are no people left.
Left of the tracks the trees are stark and the sun is high but time is stilled and at this stop, here,
I don't know what's next.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
This stop next.
This stop here
is empty,
save for benches stickered with gum
and trash cans bolted to cement.
The sign for this stop,
this stop here,
is bright with paint over its faded letters
This stop is next
to buildings with fences as high as the windows,
buildings with windows as dark as the tracks
of the train that brought me to this stop here.
Here there are no people left.
Left of the tracks the trees are stark and the sun is high but time is stilled and at this stop, here,
I don't know what's next.
Written for the first CAMP session at which I actually read my poetry. Written on a train ride home after having this experience. (Also written for the prompt of "My Life as the Opening Scene of a Movie.")
