When
below the high power lines flying by overhead
and
inbound by the green beat up signs scattered on these living
back
road grounds, you feel you’ve seen this sight imply
the
graves of ghosts still unseen and fighting
on
this battlefield of working class misgivings
and
come-arounds.
For
the yard grass is swishing in the sun with the
afternoon
scrawl of broken glass and hosts
the
hiding and unspoken punks out on someone’s fun,
and
you pass one-ways of tired kids who run forbidden from
all
but a driveway ballgame as if it’s still the biggest thing that
they
have ever done.
And
with no sidewalks in this blind drive or
dead
end deserted but for the weedy shacks and crooked signs you
sense
the lack of regard, for there’s junked cars sitting beside the
plywood
backs as cast aside and forgotten
as
the lifers who’ve been hiding in the hedges
of
someone else’s yard.
Go
meet Chuck down the street in the truck bed—
talk
to Dyl on the pills or Zach-Attack from the hills or Jay
on
the sidewalks or Bridget on the rocks or Leeroy the boy-toy
or
Georgie in his socks or Dinah with her chalk,
for
they’ll all be there ‘til the evening crickets are
singing
down the block.
And
if no valley snout house can be found here
and
no tract house can fit near the tracks or under
the
power lines asunder on the hill, at their porch light confessional
you’re
still washed of your wandering sins
and
given your weary fill, for only here live
some
ready, right, and willing to do such with
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