The Poet Asks a Final Question

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The sad, old station sat waiting
Did it wait for a train to come
Was it even waiting for anyone
Sagging roof, old letter painting
Its bailiwick long moved on
But still it stands, waits long
There are springs and summers passing
Eyes few now to see what it once was
No stray why or trailing because
Somewhere though the folk are amassing
Long fingered hands to offer salvation
Squatters to find a permanent vacation
And I ask you, is there here enow
Can cinder blocks be made complete
Will any resist a fervent heat
Does old tin a memory allow
What our sacred honor has withstood
Or does it declare it gone for good?

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