More than anything else, this is a political poem.


Unreachable

The faded sign which says I should have dined
On Ferguson's “famous food” tells me I'm finally
Nearly home. The houses on Highway Six have
Aged, and rings of twigs and cracking mud
Confirm there was a flood. The water's gone.
The water tower and church remain. I see
Their tops above the trees, but, underneath,
On Sydney Street, so many stores are
Boarded up. So many more have Spanish
Signs. The Grand is not a movie house.
If there are people in its ticket booth, behind
Its painted glass, nobody on the street can
See. The families, going in for free, are after
Things to eat. I reach the driveway of the
House I know the best and stop my car.
The note I got said, “Come back home.”
I've tried, but it's not here.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 15 times
Written on 2011-06-05 at 13:23

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