In the busy station Men and Women,
sit motionless, like statues curled in on themselves,
their bodies bent and twisted in, on the long benches
grotesquely alone.

They are wrapped in the protective cloak
of Honey, don’t stare
or That poor soul…mind dear, not too close.

Hours go on,
counted down on the great white face of time
keepings trains on track and men on schedule.  

What is it, to walk among the living dead?

Fallen angels with broken wings,
tucked beneath them,
silently waiting in the stillness of the busy hall.