Threshold

Liminal space beckons. Is filled
with fresh-cooked bagels that I
know can't be real because they
smell too good. I am standing at
the top of a stairway that leads
down to the local rail station. All
I can see are steps & a sign on the 
wall that says This way to the Led 

Zeppelin concert & looks out of 
date. The smell of bagels comes 
up from the bottom of the stairs: 
there are no signs of trains or tra-
velers; that emptiness is both 
imminent & fragrant disconcerts.