04-28-2017, 03:23 PM
My Town
Anywhere you go, you see someone you know.
Everybody's somebody's third cousin, 4 times removed.
Everybody knows something about everyone, but not much. Lengthy conversations
occur any time of day on any number of speculative topics.
Barns are bigger than houses, and more important.
No one expects cell coverage. There's not much use for it –
little takes precedence over getting the field sewn on a sunny day
or the sweet potatoes promptly dug up the day after first frost.
When people have time to talk, they go to church.
Parents drag catatonic teenagers to church and plop them in the back pews to sulk.
It's to keep them away from alcohol and girls for an extra 2 hours a week,
but mostly because they don't want to be the only parents in town
whose kids are too far from the flock to show up.
That's like wearing a sign that says, “I had one job to do and I failed.”
Church is the social event of the week. They lay hands, compare corn heights,
amen, shake heads about Detroit sports, clap on 2 and 4,
and commit gluttony at the basement potluck.
College sports is the new politics.
U of M or Michigan State – pick your side and prepare. There is no Switzerland.
The summer's most popular tan is the farmer's tan, covering the forearm and half
of the upper arm (a variation is the trucker's tan which is only on the left arm).
The corn-detassler's tan: the whole arm burned
from wearing tee shirts with the arms cut out.
The haybaler's tan is full torso burn.
The pastor's daughter's tan is a golden brown
from afternoon hours of baking on the family trampoline in the stringiest bikini
you can get away with in a Baptist town.
All the men are outdoors men.
Every season selects its own unfortunate animal.
Girls should be into hunting and sports, but not that good at it.
Hairstyles haven't changed in 20 years.
Very little changes.
Yet there's frequent talk about the way things used to be,
synonymous with the way things should be.
The land is flat and the roads are perfectly mapped –
the fields look like tiles from the air.
No one's different. If you want to be different, choose a coast
and don't return until you're ready to finally come back home.
These are the prodigal children of the Midwest –
the ones who couldn't quite make it
as a good ol' country girl, a good ol' country boy,
the ones drowning in the silos
or following the path between the corn stalks
like a yellow brick road.
Anywhere you go, you see someone you know.
Everybody's somebody's third cousin, 4 times removed.
Everybody knows something about everyone, but not much. Lengthy conversations
occur any time of day on any number of speculative topics.
Barns are bigger than houses, and more important.
No one expects cell coverage. There's not much use for it –
little takes precedence over getting the field sewn on a sunny day
or the sweet potatoes promptly dug up the day after first frost.
When people have time to talk, they go to church.
Parents drag catatonic teenagers to church and plop them in the back pews to sulk.
It's to keep them away from alcohol and girls for an extra 2 hours a week,
but mostly because they don't want to be the only parents in town
whose kids are too far from the flock to show up.
That's like wearing a sign that says, “I had one job to do and I failed.”
Church is the social event of the week. They lay hands, compare corn heights,
amen, shake heads about Detroit sports, clap on 2 and 4,
and commit gluttony at the basement potluck.
College sports is the new politics.
U of M or Michigan State – pick your side and prepare. There is no Switzerland.
The summer's most popular tan is the farmer's tan, covering the forearm and half
of the upper arm (a variation is the trucker's tan which is only on the left arm).
The corn-detassler's tan: the whole arm burned
from wearing tee shirts with the arms cut out.
The haybaler's tan is full torso burn.
The pastor's daughter's tan is a golden brown
from afternoon hours of baking on the family trampoline in the stringiest bikini
you can get away with in a Baptist town.
All the men are outdoors men.
Every season selects its own unfortunate animal.
Girls should be into hunting and sports, but not that good at it.
Hairstyles haven't changed in 20 years.
Very little changes.
Yet there's frequent talk about the way things used to be,
synonymous with the way things should be.
The land is flat and the roads are perfectly mapped –
the fields look like tiles from the air.
No one's different. If you want to be different, choose a coast
and don't return until you're ready to finally come back home.
These are the prodigal children of the Midwest –
the ones who couldn't quite make it
as a good ol' country girl, a good ol' country boy,
the ones drowning in the silos
or following the path between the corn stalks
like a yellow brick road.
(04-28-2017, 11:27 AM)nibbed Wrote: memorable vehiclesThis was really good, nibbed. Especially the last stanza. Great detail and focus.