Friday, November 7, 2008


It's been twenty years since
The beginning of the end,
But I can't seem to leave
This place.

The pace is slower,
No place to go, really.
Youth from every quarter
Scurry by en route
To field hockey practice,
Or perhaps for a good romp
In Siberia.

No sense concealing
My status.
The preppy uniform
Gives me away in a sea
Of blue sweatshirts
All issued by Blaine I'm sure.

The football team
Looks a bit scrawny
On average,
With at least one set of Michelin tires
Skewing the lineup a bit.

Familiar faces give way to
Familiar names and
Strangers stand in
For old friends.

The old buildings remain,
Some gave way to open fields.
The smoker's corner,
By the cemetery,
Is fenced in and forgotten,

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