a small town is
not so much
a poem as a prognosis
a state of being
for the living
bound by rules
and regulations
baked in clay
and genetics and
as with potatoes
planted too often
in the same old soil
repeats the flaws.

a small town is
a place of refuge
invented by the hopeful
tear-stained dead
in the cemeteries
on the hill above
who in their time
made promises and
as we are now
were compromised
while the meek gaped
and the brave were
besieged.