The Gadabout Station

Rains are gone.
trains are gone.
passengers are gone,
even
the station
is gone,
and paints!
-when people leave
they always take the paints with them
though
the canvas always remains
blank
rolled back to zero, 12 o'clock,
toned down to
the silence.

The only things that withstand the onslaught of space
are the sediments of eyes,
the waiting eyes,
never left,
never been delivered,
from the nomad station,
the forlorn, the gadabout station
on the railway
of now.