Roots That Bind

If time were perceptive

then it would see:

life being wasted in slow spaces.

Buildings in this place have a worn down air.

There is a refurbished finish,

gleaming but ruined,

as if a coat of paint

could be complete renovation.

People, here, are a particular type,

except on weekdays,

for three quarters of an hour

Most are retired–

they aim to shoot shit

sipping coffee from chipped cups

at the only gas station for miles.

For those three quarters of an hour

the street teems with teenagers,

looking to escape

dull silence,

that makes up a small town’s life.

Faded backpacks,

conspicuously placed,

allow ease of access

while allocating resources

for after-school appetites.

There is one place for teens to go,

on one night,

per week,

for two hours at the most.

Some seek excitement,

thinking experience breeds,

creating wisdom

from ill-thought out deeds.

Deep rooted families

strangle saplings,

sampling disasters

for the sake of adversity.


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