Life In A Northern Town

The highway stretches
out before me,
carving it’s way through
the northern shield.

Hundreds of miles from
beginning to end,
a black scar upon
the land.

An asphalt artery,
bringing life-sustaining
goods to these northern
communities, who’s very
existence hangs in the
balance from day-to-day.

Once they prospered,
and bustled with activity
and commerce.

People loved, lived,
and died here, and
they’re here still.

You can visit them.

Names carved into tombstones,
that sound like people you know.

Stones that have become
worn and degenerated,
with the passage of time.

Every town has them.

Reminders of how it used to be
in days long past.
That intersection where prosperity
reached its peak, and decline began.

The names of the towns don’t matter.
They all have the same look,
like you’d entered a time
warp, and rolled back the
clock fifty years.

Nothing has changed here.

Except maybe the highway.
It’s been widened, and
resurfaced to look new.

And it’s calling out to those
like me,
and it’s calling out to those
like you.

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