Franklin Road

it's not my place to stay

when night torque wrenches

all conversations shut.

and it's me alone again

on Franklin Road, riding

a row of teeth or slipping 

over tastebuds on a tongue,

whatever waits to swallow me

whole as a goldfish in a dare,

or dragon rising from its lair,

or the one volunteer miner

dropping down an elevator

shaft to seek survivors.

Trees offer no light at all,

huddled over the road,

defeated angels in prayer,

"God, leave us hope...

we've seen too much, we

sentinels of Franklin Road."

Best country bar in the county—

too far out of town, out by

the trailer parks, fishing holes

and illegal hunting grounds—

was tied like a metallic balloon

to a city so small cats crossed

it nightly collecting the news.

30 dark miles of inbetween.

As much my home as anywhere.