Thursday

Thursday afternoon,

twenty-five to one,

dusty, sunny day,

on the main street

at the end of the line,

the real end of the line,

a community kind of

thriving but still on

social life support,

a population smaller

than the first three

floors of a brownstone

in New York, St. Louis

or San Antonio,

yet this is a community

where folks still talk

to one another and

likely read their Bibles

even this close but still

south of the socialist

paradise bounded as

a lot called forty-nine,

people let their dogs

wander without leashes

and eat fattening foods

without the federal

officials breathing

down their necks,

when left alone to

practice liberty,

fraternity and equality

in their own ways,

life is live and let live

there, in that place that

time is forgetting but the

locals never will, but for

now the food is good and

so is the friendship and

good will, the wind chops

the prairie into sections,

quarters and farmsteads

like the crying of an

auctioneers signals the

end of a farmer's work

life or the crying of an

infant heralds new life

all on a beautiful

Thursday afternoon

south of the crying line

where the muted bugle

sounds Revellie, Retreat

and Taps, this the lot in

life that time has drawn,

lucky for all of us that is

 

Reviews

[Brad]

you capture small town life so well, and maybe because i'm stuck there too, but you're so gifted at pulling this out of the alphabet

[Kenneth The Poet]

Thanks, Brad. Your reviews are always greatly appreciated.