Hard to the right and
off the ramp, down
I-139 to the town of Hilton.
My red C-230 barrels down
the blazing roads, not
a blue-lighter in sight.

Fall’s leaves swirl with
magnificent wings as a breeze
keeps things serene. I sniff
an essence of blueberry pie
while exiting my car on Oak Street.

I’m headed to Last Hope Thrift
where junk is [more than] treasure
and at a price that’s a pleasure to pay.
Moth balls and mildew mottle
the olfactory and dust dances in my
eyes while moving among colorful racks
of ancient tuxedo pants and holed up blazers.

Cross the street is Bob’s Diner.
He’s cancerous and charming and
makes a helluva good greasy confection,
chili fries and bratwurst burgers.
Craving heartburn and lumpy runs,
I leave more than twice the cost on the table.

There’s one more stop to make,
left off Oak St. to Cabaret Ave. and down
to #205. My one time home, now
no more than a broken house.
Shattered wood and splintered glass—
surround the building of ivy and mud.

Salty tears rip down my flesh and
never forgotten I still taste the blood.

11/29/2003

Author's Note: I'm having trouble formatting my poems correctly...I can't get the proper amount of spaces that I want at certain points so sometimes you might not get the full effect.

Posted on 10/28/2004
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