Arnold

He couldn't stay. We both knew that. When
He was done with high school, he was going
To have to move away. This town's too small.
There isn't much to do, no money to be made.
The kids all leave. Their parents and the old
Folks stick around until, at last, we die,
And steadily, the town grows smaller. Half
The Main Street stores are closed. The long
Drive to the airport made it even clearer he
Should go, and, now, he doesn't come back
Often. When he does, we sit in these chairs
On the porch and gaze out at the endless
Plain, this awesome, frightening, empty
Land, which dug its talons into me,
But lost its grip on him.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 116 times
Written on 2019-07-05 at 17:11

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