Small Town Train

The rusted path cuts a swath
Across the scarred land
Winding between weathered buildings
That history has maintained – if only out of spite
Thick juicy clouds shade them in cool relief
Once a booming happy place
Now the few who remain
Drive rusted-out Pintos
And drink Pabst Blue Ribbon
Working at the BP pushing Slim Jims and Skittles
Should’ve built closer to the Interstate
Should’ve – but who knew?

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