I slept there
Last night,
In wind,
Below clouds
That blotted out
The moon.

And wondered,
Whose bones
Lie beneath,
And what spirits
Hover in a
Ghost town.

Clinkers, Cans,
Tin, glass;
Fragments of
The fifties
Scatter down
The fill;

Remnants of
Snow fence,
Still rot
Away the
Forties and
Beyond.

But Eighteen
Seventy-one?
Only Bowers
House remains--
Untenanted
And silent

Like the
Trackless grade;
Whispering
History to
Too few
Open ears.

03/22/2003

Author's Note: Should I wonder that they played in the dirt?

Posted on 03/23/2003
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes