Small Town America

just an old southern
mill village.... cotton mills
on one side of the road,
furniture factories on the other.

momma worked there,
my sister worked there,
my brother worked there,
and i worked there....

$1.90 an hour, loading trucks
by hand, stacking rolls of cloth
eight feet high without a lift...
putting brackets on beds, or

running bandsaws....
hard hand work, paid every week.

all those buildings empty now....
windows boarded over, signs
falling.... rats run across haunted floors.
even the old gas station

down at the end of the road....
is closed.... no more gas,
no cigarettes, no cold beer.....
and the Sons Of Jesus,

and the Elk's Club quit sharing
the old dance building on the corner....
no one lives here anymore.....

no one lives, no one dies....
and the bum on the corner
that looks like your brother
has no name.... in

small town America!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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