brattleboro, vermont
cars scorch uphill
in terminal velocity,
our town has become
a blossoming atrocity.
the view from my hailstained window
sees tired spires and spent towers,
putzy vines and shoe-stamped flowers.
underneath the bridge to new hampshire
wriggle wraiths with cratered junkie arms,
at dysfunction junction,
old pensioners in ramshackle scooters
attempt to taunt traffic
with their terminal slowness.
if this town won't slow down
and pick all its ashes up
off the ground
then what is the point of waste management?
