Once,

in an easy time, 
   so I am told,
that stately house 
across the road
stood two miles 
to the south, 
in the middle 
of the town
on stately 
North Bedford Street,
next to the church 
with the stately 
white steeple,
across from the stately 
funeral home.

​

There, 
in an innocent time
       so I am told, 
it was the local 
Youth Center,
the hangout where 
the clumsy adolescents 
danced to vinyl 45’s,
played checkers and cards 
with checkers and cards,
ping-pong with paddles 
not joysticks,
and their text messages 
were stealthily passed 
on paper folded 
into origami.

​

Then, 
in a restless time, 
       so I am told,
the house was jacked-up, 
trailered, and 
hauled out here,
and became 
the stately office
for a local CPA.
Where the 
clumsy adolescents 
once gathered and danced, 
the clumsy grownups
now budget their budgets 
and cheat on their taxes
and fill out their forms.

 

      (Budgets

            and taxes
                  and forms
                        ….. oh my!)

​

It is Sunday now
and the house 
is still, like 
the faded flags in front 
are limp and still:
the faded 
Delaware Diamond
and the faded 
Stars-n-Stripes,
drooped 
in the still and steamy 
summer 
morning.

​

Now, 
in this stagnant time,
       so I am told
where that house once stood,
there is a park 
strewn with trash
where the Friends of Bill gather 
before the noon 
AA meeting
in the church’s 
musty basement.

​

In the dull shadow 
of the algae-green steeple,
they all sit 
on the swings 
and picnic tables;
they smoke and talk
about who has relapsed, 
who is screwing who, 
who cut their ankle bracelet off,
and who has gone to jail;

​

and sweaty white women 
sag the benches

​

“ ‘cuz the walk to Waw-mart

is  pert’near a mile an' I gotta

have a cig’rette and ketch my

breath, an’ how come don’t

no damn buses come out here

anyways?”

​

and the Mexican kids play soccer 
and laugh 
        all day long.