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Main St.
Main Street.
Hardware stores and old hotels
crumbling through recessed entryways,
leading to dark tables of varnished
wood and crusted cigarettes.
Lazy day in a lazy summer. Cars drive
slower here, people think slower,
ideas spread with the speed of a cat
waking up from an afternoon nap, or
the ooze of molasses-like sap
from maple trees.
Gotta get away.
“Gotta get away!” I say
to the passers-by
on the corner, foretelling
the end of days.
Nothing left, nothing
here but old men and women
stretched thin on the racks
of their ancient age.
Fled the city, too fast paced
for their dying eyes
here to stay
here to die
on Main St.
