Rockland: Or The Death Of A Small Town Poem by Jim Milks

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)