Not Pretty
I don't think Stratford is pretty.
There's an interstate
Slicing us apart.
Folks flying over can marvel at
Our Walmart and the brilliant planners
Who let a highway
Bore straight through our town's heart.
I don't think Stratford is pretty.
If our Big White House were a person,
It'd be a hobo.
Faces away from us.
Most days Paradise Green is
Empty.
I don't think Stratford is pretty.
Torn town banners.
Hulking boats parked in shrink wrap.
Busted up and chained concrete lots.
Orange work signs and
Bored police officers
Strewn about the roads.
I don't think Stratford is pretty--
But it makes me think of
This guy I loved in college who
Was kinda goofy and who always
Wore steel-toed boots and
A scruffy beard. He
Laughed from his gut and
Looked at me straight and had
Kind things to say while
He held my hand.
--
This post is part of a the poetry series, "" -- daily poetry and photos, inspired by where we live.
The posts for January are part of an international small stone writing project "The River of Stones."
Read more small stones on Twitter at the #smallstone hashtag. You can find me on Twitter@smallstate.
