the corner of Church Street

the pike
cuts these ramshackle towns
into halves
but both halves look the same
tho one a bit closer to the shops
and the highway
and the other closer
to the nested lakes of Blackwood
where crooked, rusty-nail docks
dangle over the dark shimmer
Estelle sits on the wood-porch rocker
most summer days
talking on the phone
with one leg folded under
I can hear her smoky voice crackling
all the way from the corner
of Church Street
where Albert picks up the blowing trash
wheeling around his gray can
his hair, white and wiry
twisting in the steamy bluster
where we all wait
at the light
that’s always red
staring at the cemetery’s tilting stones
watching their shadows creep ‘crost the green
some days, Estelle is laughing
and some days, she’s shouting
and Albert never says a word


lest they be forgotten

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