The City of The Dead: A poem on small-town USA

I keep a pretty simple rule on writing. I only write it if its fun to write and interesting to read
I don't normally do poetry, but this particularly spoke to me. Like many others, I grew up in small town USA only to leave it for work in a larger, growing city. Like many others, I've grown appalled by the surprising growth in popularity of fascism within small-town USA. It seems the ancestoral homeland, now left behind by many of the mobile youth, has descended into a despondent hotbed for fascism and that creates pain.

The dreams of the, apparently racially-pure, childhood of the 1950's destroys the memories of a childhood in the 1990's, when Nazis marched in history books, not in the streets. That also creates pain.

This is a pain which I give voice to below.

I will be upfront in saying that I hold nothing back in the depiction of the sad and brutal reality of racism in this poem. I must do so, if I am going to be honest in calling it out for the laziness and cowardice that it truly is. You have been warned.

-The City of The Dead-

Mainstreet wheezes as it continues to die.

Nothing changes.

The old men of Anderville gather around

Dark mutterings through creaky breaths

Their dim eyes grow drear from the death of hope

“Where is your son?”

“Where is your daughter?”

Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Boston

It doesn’t matter where they are.

They aren’t in Anderville.

The once vibrant Mainstreet now heaves and creaks

Dusty cracks form in the proud ship of the lost city now forsaken

The winds of time and the forces of economy visited the land

In a rush of breeze and with the roar of technology the children of it were swept away

Like a pied piper of prosperity prancing through the streets, the promise of a good education and important