Farm TownThere's almost nothing here, and less to come.
This god-damned two-block main street's
Storefront windows all are boarded. There's
No bank, no grocery store. There is a bar
Around the corner, and an awful little place
That charges too much out beside the highway
That has passed us by. The school has closed.
The few kids here must take a bus for twenty
Minutes through the empty countryside to
Classes in another town. I don't know why
I'm staying here. The girl I loved when we
Were kids went off to college. She would
Write and call at first, but then she stopped.
She finished school, and found a job,
A husband, too, and now lives in a coastal city.
No one else here is my age. They all have gone.
Their parents stayed, and, month by month,
They die away. I'd don't intend to meet their fate,
So I've been saving, packing up, and making plans
To move away. I'd rather not become
The very last thing that is here.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 42 times
Written on 2020-02-13 at 00:18
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