Platform Level

Amber Marie Goodwin

Fifteen minutes to go.
Three pigeons dance
around soggy pommes frites.

Old words press on the rotten edges
Old voices hurry the inevitable fight.
Feathers,
white feathers.

Cold Styrofoam,
cardboard coffee.
Tight magazine grip.

The rails shudder with metallic ice,
bitten lips twinge at the sound.

Of the new bell.
doors now closing,
All unattended items

-will be destroyed.

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