Coming into town
Up over the hill
the broken neon
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…
The hustle of dump trucks
the lyrical sound of crushing metal and rust.
The nondescript noise of used strife.
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.