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
The WhoDeannyPod 