You breathe in the rusty air, unsure
whether the fire escapes will hold,
whether the rust in on the ancient metal
or in your own sense of adventure
as you take the next step.
Up and up again, stopping at each platform
to find, everywhere, locked doors, boarded windows,
no way in, only ways to flee, to leave behind
Deemed no longer worthy, changed
From potential and promise, to burden,
without the will or imagination to create anew,
they are left behind in hopes
that they will die quietly,
that the collapse will stave itself off
another generation or two,
and no one now alive will have to care.
About this poem
I am afraid politics are getting the worst of me. I start to write a poem about abandoned buildings and it ends up being about abandoned people.
The picture was taken from behind a forsaken shoe factory in Athol, Mass. Let’s just pretend the poem is about that, shall we?