Ode To Mastic
I walk down Mastic Road
And look into the open yards
Where grass grows
Taller than houses.
Flowers hang down
From branches of decrepit trees,
Singing off key praises
To the grimy streets
Where children pass
In sync
With heroin junkies.
Time can be devastating,
And ugly things have a way
Of getting uglier.
Boarded windows
Outnumber houses.
Down at the end
Of Cranberry Drive,
The low tide stinks
Of high manure
And the beady eyes
Of violent crack heads
Scare away the sane.
The annual town fair
Has given up on St. Jude's church.
There are no Indians
At the Indian Reservation.
Teenagers walk through old trails
And graveyards
With 40oz. beers.
They stumble and laugh
As if William Floyd's estate
Were nothing but weary shadows
Waiting to be violated.
What has happened to this town?
How long will it stand
Corruption,
Disorder,
And guilty association?
Where there are weaknesses,
There are vulnerabilities,
Open to suggestion,
Open to attack,
And we are failing.
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