Hometown

Sometimes our train station puts up question marks instead of destinations as if we might want an unknown adventure
and the coffee vending machine delivers what it wants whether it’s coffee, tea or m&ms
and sometimes the waiting room door gets stuck and people miss their train.
But the locals know. We know.
The locals just prepare themselves for a surprise beverage, learn the destinations and never ever sit in the waiting room.
We become a part of the inside joke that no one else understands. We get it
We get it. We won’t ignore the scary homeless guy because we know he only wants a chat and we have all been lonely before.
His beanie has holes in it but he keeps it
because it’s his.
We know there is more meat in the vegetarian burgers than the real ones, looking the other way because we are all cons nowadays.
We know.
We nod seriously to the old lady who keeps shouting warning us that the tanks are coming in the city centre, because she’s not harming anyone
and who knows one day she might be right.
From the outside it is grubby and broken and
it’s the same on the inside too.
The smell of ash, the pot hole grit, the slightly scary lanes, walk head down just in case
but it’s those idiosyncrasies that’ll make me always miss that godforsaken place.

by Kimberly Jamison

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