410 Gone

Long shadows begin to unroll as the sun goes down,
They stretch their legs and begin to moan.

A cold wind blows through the wasteland,
Stirring up the detritus left behind.

In an abandoned office, an old tv comes on at full volume,
Its white static ominously fills the room.

Somewhere in the growing gloom, a warehouse door bangs
In the wind.
Slamming again and again into steel,
As if to announce a guest of violence.

Dormant escalators remember bright light and crowds of
Arrivals and departures;
They sit and drool oil into the cold concrete now.

A used styrofoam coffee cup
Rolls and tumbles in the dirty wind,
It glides along with bits of weeds and ancient gum wrappers.
It makes a slight scraping sound as it goes along...

And I am cold and alone.