stone and steel.
Skyline of peeling
grays and browns,
decked out in
broken bits of glass.
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
blurred by rains
and whistling wheels.
Oil drippings dance
here and there.
Fierce little weeds
hack out gaps
in the gravel mozaic.
And all along the way,
steel rails wrought
by the market place.
I am old and fat
and hung over
in my veined,
wrinkled, scabby cloth.
Porched now but proud,
without saying a word...
My eyes, heavy lidded,
have seen a henna cloud
roll slowly by
a hundred years. But
now, my bones speak of
a howling wind to come.
I am Coatesville, PA.
chawing on a peach.
I've given no thought
to skies ripping apart,
or the storms brewing
in our young men's souls.
( when Viet Nam Era draft resistance came to small town America )