Remaining (A Postcard from a Made-up Place)

A wind through empty places. I hear the sounds of dry leaves scuttling on concrete. Lobster claws. Ghost-rat shuffle.
Out beyond these concrete planes and once bright shiny pipes, the wood settles, and there is a night-time in the woods, and, oh yes, that old phrase I love to use too much the trees are troubled.
The sound of a wood pigeon attains some occult significance. The summer twilight of the sky has been there forever.
This moment is pensive. There is the expectation of someone arriving, walking the paths of that unmapped wood below me.
Am I meant to be here? Am I meant to be met.
I breathe the air like cigarette smoke, like the most perfect of tobacco, but I gave up smoking years ago, but some things, it seems, must remain.