the hour is unimportant; <br />it is always the same on the escalators: <br /> <br />the walls are droning grey <br />and the posters are peeling, <br />conversation is rare <br />and listless faces are common. <br /> <br />if they are born here <br /> they will die here. <br /> (they will grow old here) <br /> <br />the living is a <br />rare and endangered species <br />of the growing dead. <br /> <br />are they prostitutes or politicians, <br />almost resisting the urge <br />to look at the people <br />travelling in the other direction, <br />and wanting a closer look? <br /> <br />what lives come together <br />to share involuntarily <br />these minutes that will be forgotten, <br />and how much of our lives <br />are made up of such minutes? <br /> <br />if they are born here <br /> they will die here. <br /> (they will grow old here) <br /> <br />eventually <br />we will be known only <br />through fading photographs <br />and the Alzheimer-thoughts <br />of our great grandchildren. <br /> <br />yet in our final hours it doesn’t matter <br />what we talk about; <br />anything at all can become a goodbye, <br />and thus <br /> <br />anything can become sacred.<br /><br />Sean Godley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fading-photographs/
