An Ode to an Old Town

A Poem

Am I the first for a while to walk

past the end of Poplar Street

past factories, mills, grain elevators

the caves and castles we found

empty lots at midnight gas stations

playing adult with styrofoam cups

when we were teenagers who got it

—we didn’t— do you know who carved

class of 1963 in the diner booth

who took out the Poplar Street sign

on the meditative, musical commute

am I the first for a while to notice the

short tree above coyote's dropping howls

at meadowlarks and swallows

who are the planes above us anyway

tempting us to make like the coyotes

on barstools with superficial catharsis

next to the kitchen, the bread biting back

the interior design out of fashion

juxtaposing penny souvenirs from Vegas

that rest between your bible and mural

neighbors carrying your groceries

in exchange for a smile and thankyou

am I the first for a while to hear

through chainlink fences

the swing sets chime, on top

of spotted sand and wood chips 

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An Ode to an Old Town
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