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.