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a poem by Lee Lincecum

Small Town Blues

I read the names of the dead
in sad newspapers.
A lifetime spent driving
led only to this.

That slow caterwaul
of a Southbound train
drives me to madness sometimes.

There must be
something more to envy
than the 18-wheelers
passing on the highway
to somewhere other than here.

Maybe the beauty of this place
isn't really gone.
Maybe it's just hidden.

One of these days
I will take my rifle,
walk out into those pines,
and never come back.

© by Lee Lincecum
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #26 ~ April 2013