Appalachia on Leaving

December 12, 2023

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

Post a Comment