the rust belt

The still morning
The background sun rose
Eerie, quiet
Thin, cloud-shrouded
spread like sheets

Coffee in hand
Staring at wisps
Whispering and perusing the day’s mail
Monuments to his monumental failures
Piled high
Collections collected his thoughts
and scattered them like seed

The palatable faucet groan
In the silence of the dawn
He spoke to no one
Sending forth his feeble fiats

Lest he forget he was a forgotten one
Truth, that great oppressor, met him at every corner
Bending his will
Fact, fiction, melted ore, a molten river
Rolling unchecked, recasting reality
In the wake

“It’s morning, again, in America,” he mumbled
The shakes set in
Bitterness, in its way, has a toothsome maw
Comfort comes in many forms
Formlessly striking, in its way

Could he let this go? The soothing pain?
That old friend
Hope, that adorning garment of the privileged
Found it ill fitting
More to the point waning

She was gone and it was too
The years melding into hours
It did seem like yesterday, yet today
A moment
A passing
A fiendish tease

The faucet
The washer
The drywall
The plumbing
The carpet
The peeling paint
The old jalopy
The iridescent window

The wind bit deep
The finger running over the rust
Belt tightened
He stepped forward into the field
Pale, varicose hand tilled
And wandered into the the world