at the end of our road
a rusted metal fence holds
a faded “dead end” sign
hanging askew.
beyond, dead trees
bleached gray
stand as sentinels
of our collective folly
as the landfill belches
toxic waste.
nearly everyone left
years ago, but some cling
tenaciously to life
at the edge of this fetid
swamp, unable to swallow
the financial loss
or unwilling
to pack it in
for greener pastures
over some bullshit rainbow
of half-baked happily-ever-afters.
“what will become of us?”
she asks me outside
the quik-e-mart
after inhaling a handful
of doritos.
the broken pavement burns
beneath my ratty
sneakers, and looking
her in the eyes
can only offer
in return
a noncommittal shrug.
