the word which i have spoken shall be done
so sayeth the rundown road sign
that reminds me of my err that ye hath done
in not knowing thine scripture
i assume many others that have followed my path
down sleepy fog encrusted backroad
have let countless words excrete from their brains
my feet care not for these words
simply wanting to keep the quiet beep
of my pedometer at bay for another few steps
there is a rather meticulous garden
affixed to the garage nearby
various gnomes with homes among bloom and moss
a pond with waterfall, more life than most
homes in the town have to offer
a peek in the bite sized ocean reveals none, however
just ashy, decayed leaves and some detritus
from some young punk ass kid
getting his rocks off by tossing rocks of filth into
a pond of sorts.
the local pharmacy, Bransetter’s, has prayer for customers
“A Prayer A Day” which is apparently unflinching
as it stands alone as the prayer of all days,
comparing prayer to apples, doctors, phones,
lending some semblance of comfort to a clientele
forced to know that even their giver of life
the pharmacist himself
is leaving his trade soon
“too old to adapt” he tells us,
“just ready to fade away” he whispers to no one
the barber shop with the crinkled paper
in the rotating red, blue, and (faded) grey
twirling sign,
containing five good minutes worth of materials
that, when removed
turn it back into the tiny bedroom it used to house
yet, it still seems to hum with life
even as i pass at five to six,
the dead cells clipped from scalps
covering up the vibrant taps of toes
waiting to emerge with vigor and some Brylcreem
the town has a main attraction, aside from the doom, y’know.
caves.
lots and lots of ‘em.
indian burial grounds.
(no actual indians buried there.)
walking paths into the caves purposely winding, meandering,
taking away the obvious from the tourist;
it’s a straight shot. nothin’ to see.
just give us your green, we’ll toss you a trinket
and coo at your babe
but leave us, then.
we’ve nothing left to give.
because “your adventure may start here”
but ours? it’s been bloodless and dusted.
i circled back towards home,
sipping a little water,
inspecting.
caught one last sign,
another church.
Faith Mission.
written in Sharpie on a large white sign,
but so faint, even i couldn’t make all the words out
a few feet away.
the church advertising for patrons
with a voice so tiny
even the eager can’t stumble into it.
that’s this town for you.
a whisper you don’t turn back for.
Loading comments...