Strathfield Station, 11pm

Fluorescent lights shine coldly
on warm red bricks,
contriving a twilight
where few wander
and fewer linger.

The purple air
clings to a row or two
of less than shiny
steel chairs.
Their transcience is palpable,
their design unwelcome
and begrudging.

An ashphalt gash
inflamed and bulging
scores a wound down the wall,
along the ground
and out of sight.

Time moves audibly,
yet blindly.

Poor neglected train station.