Arguing at cell
phones and headsets
some side street,
the buzz fades
Cars drive by, here
and there
Concrete still
barricades most of the sky
off the main road,
where
green grass in the
space between buildings
Families with pets
on the sidewalk, laughing and yelling
On and on and on,
there are always more houses, cars, bikes, people
The country is a
distance, an idea
Sun is shimmering
off narrow, rusted and stained trailer park roofs
Tufts protrude
between the brown rot of debris, left on lawns
Mailboxes are all
nailed to a long board between two old weathered posts.
Some are crooked and
barely hanging on, next to others that rattle and creak in the wind.
The paint, just ripe
for scraping, is falling away from the roof
Filled with
thoughtful patches of experience; red-browned wisdom replacing the youthful
metallic shimmer
Walls stuffed so
full of memories they have no room for insulation left
A white haired
elderly man exits his car, carrying an old, worn flannel shirt, or coat, or
jacket.
The thrift store is
small and homely, with thousands of dreams scattered about.
Boys done playing
ball with their fathers, have donated old, worn gloves, a small, chipped and
stained bat, a ball falling apart at the seams
Precious pink
dresses, worn once for someone's daughter’s first school concert.
Fancy shoes some
charming young man wore to impress his school sweetheart, and future wife.
Old television sets
families used to gather in front of and spend countless hours watching.
Pots and pans and
mixing bowls lined up against the wall waiting for a young couple or a poor
college student or a family fallen on hard times to make useful again.
The lonely whirr of
the solitary machine, running.
It clicks over to
another cycle,
Crunches, then
proceeds to spin a little slower than before.
The air is a fluffy,
linty aroma
A wrinkled old woman
opens the door, very meticulously
She silently folds
clothes out of a basket sitting on the table
The machine clicks
over again and abruptly stops.
The clothes sit, all
matted together, waiting to be taken out
The whirr of another
machine is heard, towards the other end of the building.
Probably in his mid
thirties or so
Wearing a plain-old,
grey, sweat shirt
The kind with a
zipper the length of the chest, and engorged, beer-belly
In one hand he’s
carrying three full bags of groceries, in those clear plastic bags that are so
much easier to hold than the paper ones
In the other hand,
he’s dragging the son he barely sees, a sad boy with tangled hair and a bright
yellow shirt with a smiling face in the middle
Awkward sideways
steps he
Places one foot in
front, or sometimes
Behind the other, up
the small hill to the house.
A dull coke
Cheap plastic cap
guns
Dented tomato soup
cans
Boxes of macaroni,
half opened and spilling
Red and yellow
squirt guns, scattered on the floor
A man with a tough
brow, strong forehead, scraggily brown hair trying to disguise his enormous
bald spot,
Closes the front
door with his one good arm, a little worn and tired, while the other hangs from
a sling at his side, amputated just above the elbow.
With his stub, he
wedges the door open to let out the last customers of the day.
He rattles his key
ring, trying to find the one that unlocks his broken-down, ancient Dodge Neon
His apartment is
small and cramped, filled with ragged plaid furniture, stained pictures in
crooked frames, and figurines found at garage sales and thrift stores and flea
markets
He turns on the TV
and slowly falls asleep to the low pitched hum of static
No comments:
Post a Comment