Allentown

If there was ever anything here,
it left a long time ago,
taking with it much
of the energy
and sun.

Taking away the trains
and letting the rails rust.
The yards lie filled
with ghosts of cars
that once pulled coal
across the great plains.

If there was ever anything here,
it must not have been that good.
Because now I am left
with shopping in dank
convenience stores
whose lights flicker
when the wind picks up.
I cannot replace my screen door
for it will only come loose,
rusting again.

The streets are dull grey
and cracked with wear,
we drive beaters
up and down to jobs
we took because that's 
all that was left.

I don a blue vest to 
deliver food and 
company to 
the shut-ins dying
of lung disease.
They cough blood 
and black tar into
ancient handkerchiefs 
and tell me 
I am too pretty for this place.

If there was ever anything here,
I don't think it's coming back.
Funerals each weekend as more
of those who built this place
go on to build another.
The smoke hangs thick in the
air, as their bones are let
back into cosmic dust.

Sometimes
I will take the pistol out of the dresser
drawer, the cheap wooden thing
from the Goodwill.
Let it lie cold and heavy in my hand.
If there was ever anything here,
it wasn't meant for me.