There’s nothing to buy
but grain and farm supplies
Toyota has quit.
The appliance store has quit.
Have to drive twenty miles
for groceries
and fifty for a new suit
or a dress,
even to do banking.
There’s a gas station
but it changes owners more often
than a stray cat has kittens.
The Chinese restaurant closed.
There’s just the diner.
Main Street is mostly
empty stores,
half-hung signs,
sagging timbers.
Kids stare through
broken windows
where flash toys once inspired
their Christmastime begging.
Old men claim the last bench,
discuss their backaches,
their intestines,
and how different things
were in their day.
The last light rolls softly
over the hilly sunset.