Jim Milks (2/7/1966 / Boston)

Old men out on the stoop stare blankly through their sullen eyes
As the world passes slowly by
Sweat shines like jewels in their steel-grey hair
Everyone has forgotten that they were still there

on Union Street that the store, that became a restaurant,
then another restaurant Is nothing but an empty space
Somewhere somehow we gave up the race

A town doesn’t die with a bang and a scream
But passes slowly with whimper and a sigh
Like the fading remnants of a forgotten dream

For sale signs hang on every street
Vacant buildings bake in the summer heat
A lonely and desolate main street
The death of a town is now complete


(JPM-7/19/11)