PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I quiver in anticipation as I enter the old abandoned street car barns

     broken panes of glass

     dusty wooden tables

     black signs with white lettering lie forgotten against the brick wall:

     "Lawrence," "Wilson".





I breathe in this little piece of history,

quenching my thirst for this place,

after five long years

I can almost see them - those people standing on the platform.

I close my eyes; I see a glimmer of red,

and upon opening them I can no longer see it;

but I can feel it.

"Hello," I whisper to them.



A newspapter lies on one of the tables.  I look at the date.  1990.

I frown, annoyed at the indecency of whomever it was that had left it there, causing a ripple in my thoughts from long ago.