OBSOLETE
By Jim Kittelberger



The rays of the sun slant through unwashed windows,
illuminating the dryness of age in this forgotten place 

that stands by the side of steel tracks where weeds

now grow; where once great iron locomotives came,

paused, then disappeared; where now only the

sound of dried leaves skittering along the ground

interrupt its sleep. 


Benches along the wood paneled walls
remain highly polished from the
multitudes of trousers and dresses that
once buffed their surfaces. 


Bars of the ticket agent's  window, a patina of age

upon them, still guard the long gone presence that

once routinely and officiously charted the
journeys, the count of which befogs the counter.


This forgotten structure, with walls that were once

yellow, green or red, chipped away by weather

and neglect has turned gray now as if to accommodate

the modern world by becoming as one with landscapes