the hour is unimportant;
it is always the same on the escalators:

the walls are droning grey
and the posters are peeling,
conversation is rare
and listless faces are common.

if they are born here
they will die here.
(they will grow old here)

the living is a
rare and endangered species
of the growing dead.

are they prostitutes or politicians,
almost resisting the urge
to look at the people
travelling in the other direction,
and wanting a closer look?

what lives come together
to share involuntarily
these minutes that will be forgotten,
and how much of our lives
are made up of such minutes?

if they are born here
they will die here.
(they will grow old here)

eventually
we will be known only
through fading photographs
and the Alzheimer-thoughts
of our great grandchildren.

yet in our final hours it doesn’t matter
what we talk about;
anything at all can become a goodbye,
and thus

anything can become sacred.

Sean Godley

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fading-photographs/