The Journal of Leonard M Hawkes

12/31/2010 07:01 a.m.

Nearly alone on the streets—
No longer a neighborhood for walking—
Though certainly built for such—
I walk my route briskly north
On South Arthur to the bank—east
Then northward down Main Street:
Yellowstone Hotel, all but abandoned,
The Station devoid of passengers.
Surrounded by ghosts I remember
The commerce and bustle of 50’s,
The decline of the 60’s and 70’s,
The disease and the demise of the 80’s
And attempted resurrections ever since.
The place was frontier when they came,
Surrounded by Indian Lands (Stolen
From Indian hands if the truth is known.)
And the first wife wouldn’t stay—
Short-sighted and faithless, I’ve thought—
Took the daughter and returned to England
Leaving Grandpa and Uncle Joe behind.
And the family of the lovely third wife,
Raised here by the cantankerous fourth wife,
Grew with the city and prospered,
Multiplied, then scattered away—
Beyond the truth of memory—
Insensitive to the power of poesy.
Nearly alone on the streets—
No longer a neighborhood for walking—
Surrounded by ghosts I remember . . . .

I am currently Nostalgic
I am listening to Classical (as usual)

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