Entering a small town on
Melancholy Hill. Small yet pronounced, the village
is full of old houses
with rocking chairs swaying on the porch in the warm air.
The sidewalk is grayed and grizzled,
every lawn cut clean
every car parked in its garage.
Shops in its slow beating heart are stained yellow
with age.
Roofs appear brilliant red against the grease colored
sky here on the hill.
Women, modest in their skirts, men in their ties
and Sunday best.
Gray, brown, stained, yet proud in its being,
not living but not dead.
No emotion but still okay, here on Melancholy Hill.
Melancholy Hill. Small yet pronounced, the village
is full of old houses
with rocking chairs swaying on the porch in the warm air.
The sidewalk is grayed and grizzled,
every lawn cut clean
every car parked in its garage.
Shops in its slow beating heart are stained yellow
with age.
Roofs appear brilliant red against the grease colored
sky here on the hill.
Women, modest in their skirts, men in their ties
and Sunday best.
Gray, brown, stained, yet proud in its being,
not living but not dead.
No emotion but still okay, here on Melancholy Hill.
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