Then We Dwelt On Sycamore Poem by Michael Pruchnicki

Although there wasn't a sycamore
in sight by the time we got there

Abandoned homes
leaning toward gravity
broken windows boarded
with plywood
fence boards strewn
about the front yard
weeds and grass
growing in gutters
and over sidewalks
littered with broken glass

We lived hand to mouth
like scrawny prisoners
behind barbed wire
in some desolate
Buchenwald
of the soul

We were told
that redemption
was at hand
but it was only
a politician
making a stump
speech
outside the gates