Passing Rust

Brick walls bleed rust-streaks, rough

like open scars that never heal.

Smokestacks lean crooked and silent,

spitting nothing but wet air and memory.

Graffiti peels off like old skin,

the colors muted and worn, fading fast,

while the train rumbles past this graveyard

of industry, forgotten and grinding away.

That blur of cracked concrete and tangled wires

feels like a place holding its breath,

a breath I can’t quite catch or follow,

something lost in the shudder of wheels

and the drone of cold steel rolling by.