Monday, March 17, 2014

Poem 49: Grit

On a bluff above town, a man sits
In his car, eating French fries 
From a bag. The graffiti inside
The tower features a moth
And beckons you to jump.
I keep noticing the vinyl siding
Of the houses, crowded in
And leering at the street.
When do the crusty gray
Snow banks finally melt?
Where do you suppose 
That ambulance is heading?
The road bends; that's why
You can't see the police station.
There are two McDonald's 
In town. One next to the tire
Place with the inspirational
Signs. None of this goes
Anywhere. Always, you can stand
On the bridge, looking down
At the river and see that
Little island with the tree
That bends in high water.

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