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City Epilogue
Look closely at
the crows.
At 9:00 p.m.
the highway ends
and hollow appendages
of turning headlights
pet the tangled shag of the field.
Dead-mute, perched in the
shush and sigh of wind through brush,
at the last turn-off.
Background city crest
rectangles
are switched off safes.
Locked in
dust,
old exploitations.
Once this field had no crows.
Black women hung diapers off tottering
porches. Families
lived sandwiched.
Splintered door frames,
coal clouded windows
and crooked bricks.
Now the crows are ebony raisins
of scrap dinner town
where only
bricks of blight
sunk among the weeds
are
cataracts
in
rain.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
Copyright ©
Thomas Wells
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