We always thought the big house was forever.
It had stood on the big hill like an old god,
its sprawl a looming force over the train track.
It sat just high enough beyond the country store
that we’d see it no matter where we stood
as it watched. We known it
even through all the different renovations.
After another fire, it was razed and replaced
by a Family Dollar. The little store closed down.
I wish I had something to end this poem:
an image of a pokeweed growing through
dollar store asphalt, but no.
There is hope here–don’t get it twisted–
but, yes, it is also sometimes sad as hell.