Appalachia, On Leaving
There's nothing for me here. Only rain and streets of wet
magnesium.
These hundred panes are filled with watery yellow light but the corners of the
shop are webbed with shadow.
There should be carriages and gas-lights here but there is only a maroon and
gold awning out there across the street.
The tiny panes run with rain, blur the words, whatever words glisten up above
that awning.
Plate glass windows and clothes behind.
Kresge's yellow-purple cotton housecoats, old display cases, nineteen-forties
styles, and every looks so old.
My face, these shops, slip along grey-hound windows lose their hold and
vanish.
Plans forgotten before the coffee's cold.
Promises I can't forget.
And you within your distance.
Tomorrow is waiting in a shipping crate, one more highway, one more home.
I can't stop now.
So this time it's Miami, because there's no place left I haven't been.
I take what was me in two-fisted filthy chunks and wrench it out.
__________
The postcard above is a the actual view across the river less than a half mile
down from my grandparent's farm
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