Rust Belt Poem by Leo Yankevich

You turn your thoughts away from your own yard,
grandchildren skipping rope and tossing balls.
The bell rings and you’re running down the halls
of the old school past frog-faced Mrs. Sward
until you reach a desk, a wobbly one
with “Johnny loves Annette” engraved on it.
You look out of the window at the lit
blast furnaces, the molten morning sun
that was your immigrant pop’s bread and butter.
His heavy accent lingers in your mind,
his calloused fingers tousling teenage hair.
A while ago you left him in the stutter
of half goodbye. And now you look behind
inside a school that is no longer there.