Terminals

Terminals. At the beginning. Fly traps and sandbags. Posting the brave to their battles. All frowns and honor in a deluge of ifs.

Terminals. At the end. Destinations suffocating under the weight of arrivals.

We took the train to far away. It didn't matter where. We took our seats and watched as the nervous windows told their stories. Smudges and all.

The barren playgrounds. The squeaking swings. Distant signs she could barely make out from her dismal window seat. Voracious machines underfoot. Devouring what lay behind. Choking on what is ahead.

She threw her stone. And hopped through the empty squares. All the while wondering who had drawn such perfect boxes.

On a such a defective world.

She assumed it didn't matter. Since she'd solved this same puzzle a thousand times. Every piece is the same. They all fit together no matter how you arrange them. It's all in the perception.

You see empty spaces. I see terminals. Letting people on. Letting people off.

It doesn't matter where they're going. Nor the places that they've left.

The chalk in their hands. Is still soft enough. That we have time to decide. Which stones to pick up.