I hear the name of a small country town
drawled by a man long tired of its sound.
He’s from the next county over,
an out-of-a-job iron worker
In a Taco Bell bathroom in tired Herkimer.
The streets of these towns are not degraded with numbers,
They have sweet, ripe names on signs faded and sunburnt.
No need for numbers,
with so few to remember.
The single stop sign is the omega point of stopped time.
Motion reserved for the lone river,
old and twisted past it’s youth of white water and straight lines
too shallow for jumping off the bridge and swimming,
But then, so are we.
We go to sleep dirty in this town,
Skin streaked with the sun’s rays,
radiating heat hours after sundown.
It’s past midnight when the air cools.
Billowing through open windows,
Snaking over bare legs
draped over the sides of beds.