The crates are
discarded
decanted of their
wares,
shells, chaff
clothing.
It no longer
takes two hands,
straining and
complaining,
to lift these
empty vessels.
They are filled,
now, with nothing,
the ghost of
their content
advertised
in stencil.
Maybe they’ll go
home
to be refilled
with finest ale
useful until the
staples rust,
or rot, unfed, in
a yard
of forgetfulness
like the
pensioner
who once drove
the dray.
Their story is
unfinished
this is the
waiting room
a cobble-carpeted
no-mans-land
before the
whistle blows.
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