In the Hollow

What sort of life is this?, I ask myself,
Though I already know. It's all around
My creeping car. The mine is closed.
There's little else, some logging.
That's it, nothing more. The folks
With prospects move away, the
Foremen and the managers, the
Kids who stayed awake in school.
Those still around are human
Wreckage, pensioners with scarred-
Up lungs, and younger people,
Drunk or stoned, or both. If they're
Not in that bar, they're waiting in
The welfare office, or they're
Face-down in a ditch. All I ever
Have to do is haul them home
Or break up fights. This car's
A heap. It smokes and grumbles.
I've gone to the county clerk
And told her it should be replaced.
She says the county's out of cash.
This town's been where I've always
Lived, except when I was in the war,
But I can see the sort of life I'm leading
Isn't going to change. I'm thinking
More and more that I may move
Away myself.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 54 times
Written on 2016-06-02 at 16:30

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