sweet suffocating home

BY AARON QUINN

There are holes in tin roofs
and rusted fixer uppers parked
in overgrown lawns.
Fight or flight tills up
the suffocation that will surely come
before the weekend is over.
Boredom contorts its fat fingers
over the overeager thought process.
Even though stars are points
that look like they have been whittled
thin and the moon is too big
to grab with the hand
there is no room for the imagination to expand
while looking down on Poor Valley.
The speckled jacket on the warm
fall trees wanted to control the mind
like a good woman with a stout chest
and a firm hand
but the bickering between growth
and stagnation
tore imagination and familial rest asunder
until the diesel engine
could hop over pot holes while passing the doublewides
and double lines
that would give way to four lanes
and named streets.

Catalpa