Candor and Cotton Candy…


fringetown 13

Coming into town

Up over the hill

the church

the steeple

the broken neon

and

stolen spokes.

Checks and balances that bounce and float.

At the edge of the road in Fringe-town…

a poetic slippery slope.

Across to the west side

the damaged pavement

next to the Tar Factory…

the Opera house

the food pantry.

Helping Hands and bake goods for sale

under the shadow of all things stale.

Lest I forget…

the surrounding sound igniting life…

in Fringe-town.

The hustle of dump trucks

the lyrical sound of crushing metal and rust.

The nondescript noise of used strife.

Fringe-town…

requiem of a dream

‘hanging on to hanging on to letting go.’

This town has miles of sense of…

nowhere left to go.

In the middle of the road

on the edge of nowhere…

the tombstone table tops

the Sunday Mass

with the Father…

holier than thou in back alley talks.

The taste of candor and cotton candy…

crossing the sidewalk.

Backyard ghetto talk

Dirty needles in stock.

Middle of the road, Fringe-town

looking up to looking down.

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