In front of me is Lego Land,
red brick houses with windows
under slanted rooftops, looking
like sad faces staring back at me,
standing at a met station on a
Sunday afternoon in winter.
The desolate sky lies overhead.
Behind me is the wasteland,
the forgotten land, still waiting
for the forgotten school that
will never come, still harbouring
Pioneer Mills 1905, abandoned and
pointless for as long as I can remember,
like a once proud old man put out to pasture.
Along the platform we await
different journeys, wait
with different urgencies.
Two young mothers with two
crying babies, leaning on prams,
sending text messages.
Four teenage lads sit smoking,
one teenage lad stands boasting,
a man in a suit is pacing up and
down, checking his watch,
wiping sweat from his frown.
A calm man watches the pacing man
expressionless, motionless, with
digitised sound reverberating through
his ears. An old lady is stood on the edge,
staring down the track, solemly staring,
and I am behind her, my future waiting.
After eternity a met roars into the station,
and now all I see is a long seated line
of grey Mancunian countenances.