Cold grey eyes stare across

The wide, sparsely inhabited small town street

Chain link fences

Guard double wide dreams

Awash in spinning sunflowers

And pink flamingos that tip towards the earth

Sparse grass and uneasy gravel footpaths

Under forlorn garden chairs

Half broken below the weight of its fair weather owners

Invite the traveler to the front door

Makeshift steps of rickety concrete elevate him

The handle seems to hang on to his hand

Twisting with him and unleashing

The pungent odor of discontent and bacon fat

Followed swiftly by the sickly sweet smell

Of ignorance and Twinkies

The sound of dust settling is all he hears

And his steps are swift across

The heaps of gossip magazines that populate the room

The traveler finds his place

Behind closet doors that just can’t seem to close

To lie in wait of the diner gossip queen

This broken down wooden paneled box she lives in

A far cry from that muddy hole

The traveler has chosen