Over grown weeds on railroad tracks and leaning telephone poles,
crumbling roof tiles chewed up by the wind. Tired streets, yellowing pages
rusty iron and dusty old stages, cobwebs dancing suddenly
alive, a tempest gusting through cracked window panes.
No one lives here these days. Only the wailing
of the train on a rainy night stirs the spirits
past remembering.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019