Sitting at the red light at a quarter past three, <br />Seemingly the sun has set fire to Main Street. <br /> <br />A familiar buzz of laugher and rubber soles <br />Slapping blacktop, bees are buzzing, summer is alive. <br /> <br />Today I notice everything, even how the stop sign <br />On the corner of Frank Street bends into itself, <br />The paint peeling from it’s edges like plastic. <br /> <br />I spy an elderly couple, shovels in their hands, <br />Jeans rolled up, they govern mother nature <br />In her flowerbeds, an atmosphere of southern demise. <br /> <br />Today the sun is scorching, this small town <br />A proverbial backdropp of mediocre irregularity. <br /> <br />Old people are but peeping toms in a fish bowl, <br />The rest of us running, running circles across <br />This miniature boulevard of poverty and crime. <br /> <br />Finally the light changes, the AC spurts to life, <br />My fingers fumble in vain to find a news-worthy <br />Radio station, all the while the voice of Billy Graham <br />Cries of mortality and damnation, he says Jesus is alive.<br /><br />Stacy Lynn Mar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/southern-demise/
