Gravel crusted potholes, all slathered up with mud,
And ruts that jar your bones served on the side.
No place to turn around: I know because I've tried;
The heavy rains bring washouts from flash floods.
A great big hill so steep it evokes fear and dread
(When sloshing in a truck with two-wheel drive).
A ravine filled with brush, and trees no more alive,
Old tires guide wayfarers where to tread.
Out near 231, the forest's sounds subside;
The asphalt groove song echoes in your head.
And there, just 'round the bend, that quiet sense of dread:
The trail down to the place the woman died.
The big wide world awaits: four-lane divided life
To work and church and friends and so much more.
A fleeting mirror's glance; the heart takes flight to soar
To land, to lodging, daughter's family, wife.
Gravel crusted potholes, all slathered up with mud,
Like servings of my favorite dessert.
The tires turn to joy as paved gives way to dirt;
This road's my home: there's Huskey in my blood.
A town wheezes the last rites over
its people through phlegm-ridden
lungs and turgid cankers.
Its blistered wounds are coated
in the mud that lines its harbour
and creeks.
The loss of the dockyards was its lowest tide.
Now, existing work taunts the town from
the other side of the harbour,
separated by low tides and disused ferries.
As the town slides closer to its knees,
the landlords willingly house
the subsidised washouts.
And gang fights marry into husband
and wife fights, twisted around petty
pride and sectarian bigotry.
Leaving kids to run about half-stoned
and roaring with cider, where the
unpredictable waits around the corner.
And rape happens behind the church,
under God's careful watch, where worship
of the needle leaves only emptied lives.
And lost souls sleep under cardboard palaces.
This is a town that wants them out, so that
it can shut the doors, draw the blinds
and start again.
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