Appalachia, On Leaving (Poetry)

February 16, 2021

 


Appalachia, On Leaving 


There's nothing for me here. 

Only rain and streets of wet magnesium. 

These hundred panes are filled with

watered down yellow light. 

But the corners of the shop are webbed

with shadow.

There should be carriages and gas-lights here

but there is only a maroon and gold awning

out there across the street.

The tiny panes run with rain, blur the words,

whatever words

glisten up above that awning.

Plate glass windows and clothes behind.

Kresge's yellow-purple cotton housecoats,

old display cases, nineteen-forties styles,

and every looks so old.

My face, these shops, slip along grey-hound windows

lose their hold

and vanish.

Plans forgotten before the coffee's cold.

Promises I can't forget.

And you within your distance.

Tomorrow is waiting in a shipping crate,

one more highway, one more home.

I can't stop now.

So this time it's Miami, because there's no place left

I haven't been.

I take what was me in two-fisted filthy chunks

and wrench it out.

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