Today's poem is by Frank Gallimore
Since You've Gone
Let's not decorate it. Someone
passed without complaint
while the town, less than compliant,
forgot to die.
Frost bit the crops in half
and the last job for miles went to gut
the steel assemblies of the cannery.
Tractors sank no-wheeled,
and to punctuate the cliché
of a straw hat on a fence,
the church grew in my window
and rats dozed in a bulldozed bed.
You know what prospered
ran on the fumes of its nostalgia,
what came with the territory
as diggers lunged
half into and out of
their graves like peekaboos.
All condolences are out of date,
illegible as the freehand
of unused telephone wires.
Church bells pealed and repealed
to no effect. Remember?
Hum this until the whole tune
The corral's fallow
and we can still see nobody's mares
set loose some miles
outside a gate undone in Omaha.
Copyright © 2009 Frank Gallimore All rights reserved
from Cimarron Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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