Randolph
Up the hill to my home,
Amongst white pillars,
Gardens with fountains and
Green, green, green,
Sits my house.
Brown, because the paint chipped,
With front steps missing and
Worn shoes by the door.
Passerby’s remark at the yellow of our grass,
Shudder at the chained dog barking.
Through the streets,
Little piles up until
The rain pours down sending it
Right to our house.
Unpaved driveway colliding with
Rusty pick up truck,
Hood always up.
Neighbors never greeting us,
Guests uncomfortable with
Four pizza stained children running around.
Downtown the main road swerves
Sending you to Bethel or Braintree, but
Just before sits the Kimball Library,
Regal, with high front steps leading to
Two giant doors.
Marble benches carved in with names
Of families who selfishly donate,
Names of families long passed away.
Walking nearby, the bridge,
Crumbles and shakes with
All the passenger cars.
On each side a river,
Gleaming orange and red from
The stones underneath.
Down there hooky boys skip stones and
Smoke cigarettes,
Laughing, about nothing, just laughing.
With two grocery stores,
Fighting for priority and
One Ben Franklins always busy with
Grandmothers buying frames,
Little girls with their Barbie’s clutched to their chest and
Mothers stressing over prices.
With a bank always busy with
Men who spent all their money at the bar,
With men who can’t afford their home,
With men dirty from twelve hours of digging,
Dirty with debt.
Copyright © Mirabel Smith | Year Posted 2009
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