on behalf of Buffalo’s Central Terminal
She stands there, empty jack-o-lantern
questions the daily judgment of men,
heads fat from gorging on ego.
Her windows, broken and beaded –
shattered lunches served over concrete
to patrons we’ll never understand.
I heard a story once, and it went like this:
‘My grandfather worked there every day for thirty years.
We’d go down to see him on his break and he’d be napping
on one of those wooden benches.
He’d smile so wide when we’d wake him up and then
we’d go into the diner and eat cherry pie.’
She’s been raped
her insides roughed and robbed
her youth a faint blur
her recollections, echoes of whistles and steam.
We visit her, some of us in our minds,
some of us with shovels and grins.
All of us remember a future
where destruction and decay
were things of the past.
© Carrie Spadter, 2002. All rights reserved.
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