the police station on platform one is empty.
from the footbridge over the tracks, you can see
the insides of rooms, roofless, overgrown.
local boys gather there to smoke
and talk about Pokémon,
or football,
or sex.

one day it will be stripped back and rebuilt from rubble.
the phone by the door will be pulled from the wall;
it will leave a pale grey scar.
this tiny gash in the plaster will become a new oasis
for moss and lichen and a stray cigarette butt.
the boys will walk the same streets with unfamiliar bodies;
comparing cuts and coin tricks,
or glancing down the line at the urinal.

they will find a new vacancy to fill,
in a passion, or a place, or a person.
they’ll gather by the grave of a local pub,
a stones throw from the place they used to love,
and talk about politics,
or football,
or sex.

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