Abandoned intersection

There is an old tin gin building
Standing tall but abandoned
On the side of Highway 441,
Within the city limits of Homer.
The shadows of its rafters
Have been swept almost free of cotton lint
And the spectres of old farm wagons
Long ago replaced by rusted old chevys
And buicks and pontiacs
Towed here from the side of some road
To rust and wither and fade
Into the shadow of the dying season,
The memories of cotton crops
Receding into the twilight
At the abandoned intersection
Of these remote and recent pasts.