I never met my parents, but
this small town has always felt like home.
As a bottomless sea swaggers toward this township,
I ponder this orphanage stoop
and the poetry of bookends;
I was found here as a baby,
and here I’ll die a man.

Last month at the town meeting
the minutes were taken,
and the majority voted to leave it—
let go of our property and homes,
break the dam and run with the money.
In an impromptu speech, the mayor made us swear three things:
forget our lives, start anew,
and never vacation on the banks of this newborn lake.

But without this town, I am silent.
I am dwarfed in the long lines of shadow
between big city dreams and storm drains.
Without this death,
I start over. Naked. Helpless. Begging.

Never again.

God, it’ll be good to dance, when the water finds me.
She’ll sweep me off my feet, and I’ll show her around.
Face down, we’ll glance over the rooftops of five and dimes,
sing songs of preservation, make jokes at the mayor’s expense.

I’ve yet to meet her, but I’m sure we’ll be inseparable.
It won’t be long now.

04/13/2009

Author's Note: Written with Ben Lawless

Posted on 11/15/2010
Copyright © 2024 David Neubauer