Prairie Poetry   
  My Prairie Town

Fare thee well my prairie town.
Its elevators long torn down.

Gone too the rails and freight train stops.
No weekly runs, no box-car drops.

No general store, no lone gas pump.
Both dismantled to the dump.

No village well, save one last trace.
Of caved-in crib to mark its place.

The one-room school and country hall.
Now boarded up, with sagging walls.

No children play, no recess bell.
No old time waltz, once danced so well.

No baseball diamond, no field of dreams.
Just broken stands and sagging screens.

No more at-bats, for village sons.
No car horns honk, at their home runs.

Hollow houses, in deep decline.
Hold memories of better times.

No screen doors slam, no dogs to bark.
Just solitude, from dawn to dark.

The time draws near, that can't be stopped.
When small towns live, in just our thoughts.

If these thoughts, should one day cease.
My prairie town, please rest in peace.

  Bruce Foster
  Copyright © 2008 Bruce Foster
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