Stop Somewhere

There’s a bronze charm to railroad-siding towns
That never were that much and have now spent
Decades fixing to die, but never quite.

You could picture them shown in mournful poems
Composed in feigned-relaxed tones of free verse
By the likes of long late Richard Hugo.

They have rows of houses on weedy lots
Where scattered pickups rust in dusty sun,
And just enough dogs bark so that you’re aware

You’re a stranger, suspicious here, and some
Of these houses remain occupied, but
It’s hard to tell anymore just which ones.

Don’t get cute. Don’t wax nostalgic. Just don’t.
There’s got to be some community here,
Just as some of these yard trees still throw shade.

Why is the sun so strong in these places?
Why do the inhabitants seem to hide?
There’s an old bank with a handsome facade

Of cut sandstone and southern exposure
For its tall, glassless windows on Main St.,
Three stories high, and as you’re rolling by

Slowly, you half-fantasize fixing it
To live in, lonely palace for a song,
But then, like free-verse poets, you’ve rolled on.