Small Town

Small town
hidden from
the centuries.
A town just
over the hills
to the south.
A place where
old men die
in peace.
In the summer,
small creeks
and little
brooks
streaming
down from an
icy mountain
top run dry.
A town with
mills and steel
factories built
in decades past,
now adorned
with shattered
windows and
faded paint
and rusting
smoke stacks.
Quaint, tiny
homes on
tiny lots
with stone
driveways.
This town.
Where neighbors
know each other
by name and by
nickname alike.
A town whose old
men yet to die
sit on wooden
chairs in the
front lawn,
waiting for
cars to drive
down main
street. The mayor,
who lounges
over a banana split
at the corner ice
cream parlor
every Saturday
evening, shoots
the breeze with
the men, young
and old. And next
door the women gossip
by the front gate
of the old Baptist
church built in
1857. This
town that
Washington
doesn’t know
and doesn’t care
to know. America
is this town.
Washington doesn’t
know us.

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2 thoughts on “Small Town

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