Prairie Poetry   
  New Town, Great Plains Province

Early in the morning, the Library
fills with noise from broken windows,
the Barber’s pole has ceased to twirl –
no more trendy do’s or first-time curls.

Upon inspection, First Bank is nearly full
of branches, leaves and empty nests,
while over at the Post Office,
repairs are overdue – and cancelled.

City Hall Fountain is cracked and dry,
layered with rubbish and dead polliwogs.
Tall weeds grow where the tracks were,
waving as if passing the New Town Depot.

One inviting house shows a battered sign:
“.... TRESPASS...” but no one seems to.
Rows of corn lace across the schoolyard
and through the New Town Baseball Field.

In the evening, semi trucks are heard
out on the Interstate – as if years away.
Yes, New Town has paid its dues –
and, too, the growing price of progress.

  Francis Masat
  Copyright © 2006 Francis Masat
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