Very Few Places Are What They Used to Be

Friday, September 24, 2021

sharp rocks / edges so jagged / it reminds you of glass shards from your broken snow globe collection / roaring waters with the guidance of kings / white foam gathers like cotton balls on your fourth grade diorama / hot winds that mimic your flustered breath / as purple paint dripped off your fingertips in art class / I hid trinkets of my lifetime in the pockets beneath the dam downhill from my childhood home / swimming to them in my dreams / when nostalgia gripped my throat / yet today they crumble / when the hard metal of a new bridge meets the chest of yesteryears / the newborn path, a roadway to someone else’s childhood / I can’t even screech into the belly of the river after midnight / because shortly after the bridge / it looked less like the sneaking out with people I’d known since elementary school and more like / street lamps whose heavy breath flood concrete paths / I can still spot the water tower across the peak / when the sun hits the waves / golden reflections take me back to daydreams of what I crave this town to be 

This poem was published by Overheard Lit.

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