Still a smoking heap

A lazy concrete path
half covered in weeds
leading to a bent stoop
with a loose step
and an old railing
about to let go

The sighing terror of evenings
smelling of mothballs and cigar,
feeling sticky like
an overdue rainstorm
all to the sound of
crackling spam in a pan

The depths of despair
at least a few years away
alongside a stripped mountain
with nothing but ash and beer bottles
and oh cigarette butts everywhere
as they talk about the penny candy store
as if it was utopia

You know without looking
the house has brown shag carpeting
and faux wood paneling
like a spelunker’s purgatory
and all you can do is hope
to find a decent rock to hold onto

One last chili dog
and the town is history
and your history
becomes something you’ve overcome
and not gotten stuck in.