By W. Gosnell

It was the kind of town

that inspires wayward 

children to sell lemonade.

But who can know the good

and bad news behind the

clapboard dwellings along 

the sleepy lanes of

Yesterdays towns.

A white figure hangs

laundry next to a barn

and the aroma of rhubarb pie

enters the yard through

an open window.

A winsome melody travels

backwards through a light

blue apron that flaps on

a wind rocked clothesline.

There’s clearly work to be done

on a common afternoon

in a forgotten town.

A flattened Coke can 

glitters in the street,

someone left the screen door

open at the house on the corner

of Orchard and Elm,

a stray cat runs out of

the alley behind a closed

gas station next to the

Presbyterian church.

Who knows how to keep track 

of time in a forgotten town.

How can such a small bucket 

standing on the bottom step

of a wooden back porch

contain so much water.

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