That word used to be a huge place,
a soot-darkened, glass-paneled ceiling,
a marble-floored arena of crossing paths,
of newspaper stands and coffee outlets
and roll-along suitcases and ticket stubs
and distant double whistles and slamming doors.
And echoing announcements.
That word used to be the temporary end
to the same old pattern,
a gleaming gateway to Different
that smelled of a hundred perfumes;
a place where you brushed shoulders
with absolutely everything.
Now it’s just an eight letter word
that gets stuck in the throat
and which means the end of the line.