Painted Gutters

January 17, 2008
By Benjamin Stark, Grandville, MI

The green light reached down the road for his car off the black rain on the street. Squinting through the intensity of passing headlights. His mind wasn’t right. Influence pushed out cash to tiny scores in broken rooms. “I’ve got a strangle hold on this decision.” With nothing left, it’s all there is to do. A fierce wind bellowed for ice and beckoned the same worried glances that got him lost in the first place. A cynical conscience lays the blame down like concrete, refusing to budge.


The slumping city, once the product of a revolution, now the remnant of a new age. Sucked him in and spit him out. A dream he woke up from, but still melted down the curb into the sewer. Soaked up into the dirt to sprout an alluring flower of radiance that was not ignored. People of the future will remember his fate is something he brought upon himself. He slowed his car and turned around. Drove out past the stop signs and beyond the glooming lights of Division which display a poverty that oppresses the spirit. Clear of all the miserable sprawl. He humbly lost control and greeted the oncoming stars.


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