The strong, nearly intoxicating

Smell of burning trash

Comes to me past a state park,

an ancient river that gave this
place its name,

3 creeks,

a gorgeous pond,

and half a medium-sized city.

 

 

At least

That’s what my imagination tells
me.

I want to believe that if the
trash burners truly exist

They live in spheres separate from
mine

There can be no points of mutual
reference

No chance that I’ll take the
parking spot they covet

Or that they could snag the last
copy of the Gazette where I stop

For my coffeedonutpaper

No.

Not those folks.

People who are my bogeymen

These fearsome apparitions.

 

 

I know all about the east side of
this not so large town.

The pond I’ve heard about,

Those several creeks that may be
only a windy one,

The valley where a river ran dry,

And the state park I’m afraid to
visit.

 

 

© Gayle Force Press 2002

 

 

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