this little old sleepytown.
strolled into the tavern
straight from the U.K.
and knocked some injuns
upside the head
with an oak rifle butt
and they gave it to him.
the days when men took
by force, not deceit.
its been through the wringer,
my little sleepy town
soaked by the river
pounded with grime
flooded with trash
then forgotten
ten years ago I swore I'd never come back
but now I sit by the river each night
counting my blessings
small as they are,
even bigger they seem
fireflies glowing up the mud
crickets barking sounds in the trees
ropes dragging dead limbs
unrecognizable, unnameable
hoots and hollers
this old town got a chemical jolt
for awhile
hillbillies on three day benders
scratching, uncomfortable
faces caving on themselves
scrubbing cracks with toothbrushes
entertaining only delusions of grandeur
now the town is saturated
in junk, just as sure a death
though, somehow, things seem
more
elegant
slow
fog descending
morning drooping down
like sleeping powder
a girl in black boots stomps along
bus stop sitters, ever patient.
a strange music poster
in the feed store window.
the boy on the bike
with the skinny bare chest,
crooked hat, smoking, sneaky glances,
peddles circles along the trail
so slowly.
even the red house on the corner
has gone to sleep.
will this town ever die out?
sleep-wearied
riflemen fleeing in the night,
nature twining her viney arms
back around cracked concrete
at her own pace.
