To the Wollaston T Station,
Your air was stale and smelled bad, like all T Stations. If buildings could be greasy, like an unwashed body, you would be greasy. There were about two months out of every year that the weather on the platform was habitable. And every time I walked through your lobby I remembered my friend’s Dad’s song about taking a piss outside.
But still, you were a harbor. A shortish walk from my house. A place from which to begin. A safe place to return.
God, though, those pay phones.
Thank you. Be well.
-e.