Postscript on Prospect Street


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Everyday at the corner store

Passer bye’s…

denim dusted

clouded and toked.

Plain, not the same.

Neon walking vestiges,

uptown, downtown on Central

Haunts and purrs,

Ferals carrying  extra baggage in a leopard print purse.

All at once, a day like none other.

Northern sisters, seasoned brothers.

With a check of the Franklin clock…

‘a notice’…

small never stops.

Shanty town folk.

Shanty town writer.

Coming to life with a town on fire.


no new high on High street?

Never time for the boys and girls at the club?

Here the pigeon is a peaceful dove.

Here there is always a conscious decision to not out run…

a checkered past.

Relative to Wranglers that fade too fast.

Used to the smell of a 3 alarm.

Scratches to place in potholes…armed from harm.

Awareness that grunge towns reap and sow…from an orphan’s farm.

Always will there be, naysayers from afar.

Missing the shrug and stutter from an elk at the bar.

Reputable cousins pointing out from glass townhouses…

a misfits conscious decision to live in the transgression.

Living and breathing…small town confessions.

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