Pigeons roost in the eaves
of the abandoned station.
You remember abandon, what life
was like before children, the wreck
before recklessness. The quiet
of pigeons roosting precedes any
footstep, any arrival of the Amtrack.
You remember life before arrival,
before the schedule, the “routine.”
Now hours crowd the platform.
You have to rise in the dark
tunnel with one lamp on, one headlamp,
to reach the abandoned station
while your roosting pigeons dream
in bedrooms of becoming doves.
That’s the thing about abandon,
the slumber of the platform, form
before content: It’s always ready
to throw itself away: Poised
and ready to jump in front of the train.