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.