On Main Street Time Drags An Empty Shoe
Engines turn-over only to drift backwards
into the on-going.
Cats cling to kids and kitchens.
Discarded are the shopping shoes.
Stale ideas grow dust clouds
in that space between our skulls
and heaven.
Paints for store fronts
are brushed aside
forced to hide under long
unclimbed ladders.
An ill-wind adds gossip to tongues, but where?
The talkers are not listening
and the silent have surrendered.
Tree roots clack and crack under street lamps
buried, yet they creak as loud as
any brittle-bound Grandfather clock.
Small towns struggle
to trim the sly slow weeds
that mesh and bind
their collective ramshackle histories.
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