This Town is a Freshman

A poem about where I grew up, rural central Illinois.

This town remains a freshman,
a flat speck that has lived with
pastures dotted with unaware cattle.
Children on banana seat bikes
consume sweets and frozen dinners.

Broken cornstalks line the roads,
a random Frisbee in one's ditch;
cigarette boxes, beer cans,
assorted trash, weeds, and spiders.
The ditch grass needs cutting.

Collars are up, slack in the belt,
a brawny arm surrounds a woman;
heaven is an ATM, a few bars,
and a filling station sandwich
franchise combo along route 121.

Someday---I'm going to cruise
right out towards the horizon
with a firm pillow and a favorite
blanket tied to my back. sleep
and eat where I lie, I"ll cut out.

You say, you're small town folk.
I say we all are, in some way
or another..., and if you are lucky,
the world will get to see you smile.
I hope the world gets that chance.