Pretty Dark Town

The dogwoods, plums, and redwoods
On Main St. have bloomed again.
No one murdered this year, yet.

This year’s small horror has been
The house on Main St. that burned.
It burned from somewhere inside,

Burned until the roof caved in,
And the walls leaned to the wound.
One tangled yellow ribbon

Of police tape threads the trees
Blossoming in the front yard.
Always something with this town,

The child held in the basement,
The octogenarian
Killed by the boy who for years

Had mowed her yard—still pretty,
Still quaint, pretty small as well,
Nestled against a black cliff,

A town of flags and flowers,
Churches, a few old houses
That look handsome from the curb.