The Station Poem by Hannah Gilchrist

The station

Dusty seats on a beaten subway
Broken dreams peel off the walls
The call for something better
Amidst the stench of stale tobacco
Acrid & dusty; it catches the throat
The voice is hoarse and foreign to it's owner
The tocsin echoes in the empty halls
Even the wind has a voice as it swells and hurries through the hollows
Unaffected; a mere observer
The warmth of familiarity
A place once visited or imagined
It bursts as reality settles
Stationary for just a moment,
The gentle rhythm of a thought passing by