Small Town Romance
You could almost weep for the bankrupt bartender,
but watching his hands for a sign of mercy
is the very definition of a wasted day. Over the
entrance they've hung a sign that insists you go away.
Habit is the law of the land. Pride and prurience
are rewarded, just as empathy is openly despised.
They'll piss on you just as soon as leave you dead
translates the Latin on our family crest. Get out
the shovel there's another truth we need to bury.
That old couple shares the window table every day
about this time, the blood softly clanking around
their gray bodies. He worked a double as often as he
could
and she did the same. So went youth and dreams.
The streets are crumbling and our chief exports are
cancer
and cruelty. Lately we've all gone unlisted in the phone
directory. Blank pages like a thing a ghost would write.
--Kristofer Collins
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