My Town
my town, which stretches from cemetery road
to the #2
is a dusty afterthought
its foundations were paved with sacrament and complacency
and mounds and mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy
in my town
young boys mow lawns for old ladies
and old ladies bake pies for single men
and single men fix cars for married women
because my town is run on favours
it’s a perpetual I. O. U.
fuelled by earnest unpaid dues
and voluntary labour
in my town, the phrase
in the privacy of your own home
is relative
because every one is
a relative
and at dark, your picture windows
become oversized TV screens
playing the same reruns
for passing teens
drunk on peppermint schnapps
and freedom
my town has secrets
like brown-edged papers locked in antique cabinets
like overgrown paths through backyards
and whispers of long-forgotten affairs
the remnants of which
walk the streets, pump your gas
and deliver your mail
my town is nicknames
it’s short lived fame
an endless game of inside jokes
my town is tongue-in-cheek
and mild, and meek and modest
and it is small
they say you can’t take a shit
without somebody knowing what colour it was
and the rumour mill is always churning out hearsay
which they print in the paper every fourteen days:
four pages full of deaths and garden advice
(yes, there is a lot of emphasis
on putting things in the ground)
in my town
if enough people agree on something
it becomes the truth
and your marriage doesn’t count
unless both parties are Catholic
but luckily if you say enough Hail Marys
God will forgive anything
all over my town,
tractor parts, old tires and broken lawn chairs
are tombstones in the front graveyards
of each home
and as if even the architecture has given up,
every house looks
like its just let out a big sigh
but our church has glowing
windows on each side
and hand-carved faith cut into every pew
stand on any corner of my town
and you’re knee deep in history
my town is community
it’s a quilting bee
a spending spree on snowflake-shaped doilies
at the craft sale held at the rec center every November
it’s fall suppers and tourtiere
and sucre a la crème pie
my town has no curb appeal
it’s an awkward tip of the hat
a casual two-finger wave over a steering wheel
but I’ve been feeling like soon
our secret will get out
you see, if someone shines enough light
on my town, like a realization that comes
from a moment of doubt
we will grow
and you have no fucking idea
what we’re capable of
to the #2
is a dusty afterthought
its foundations were paved with sacrament and complacency
and mounds and mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy
in my town
young boys mow lawns for old ladies
and old ladies bake pies for single men
and single men fix cars for married women
because my town is run on favours
it’s a perpetual I. O. U.
fuelled by earnest unpaid dues
and voluntary labour
in my town, the phrase
in the privacy of your own home
is relative
because every one is
a relative
and at dark, your picture windows
become oversized TV screens
playing the same reruns
for passing teens
drunk on peppermint schnapps
and freedom
my town has secrets
like brown-edged papers locked in antique cabinets
like overgrown paths through backyards
and whispers of long-forgotten affairs
the remnants of which
walk the streets, pump your gas
and deliver your mail
my town is nicknames
it’s short lived fame
an endless game of inside jokes
my town is tongue-in-cheek
and mild, and meek and modest
and it is small
they say you can’t take a shit
without somebody knowing what colour it was
and the rumour mill is always churning out hearsay
which they print in the paper every fourteen days:
four pages full of deaths and garden advice
(yes, there is a lot of emphasis
on putting things in the ground)
in my town
if enough people agree on something
it becomes the truth
and your marriage doesn’t count
unless both parties are Catholic
but luckily if you say enough Hail Marys
God will forgive anything
all over my town,
tractor parts, old tires and broken lawn chairs
are tombstones in the front graveyards
of each home
and as if even the architecture has given up,
every house looks
like its just let out a big sigh
but our church has glowing
windows on each side
and hand-carved faith cut into every pew
stand on any corner of my town
and you’re knee deep in history
my town is community
it’s a quilting bee
a spending spree on snowflake-shaped doilies
at the craft sale held at the rec center every November
it’s fall suppers and tourtiere
and sucre a la crème pie
my town has no curb appeal
it’s an awkward tip of the hat
a casual two-finger wave over a steering wheel
but I’ve been feeling like soon
our secret will get out
you see, if someone shines enough light
on my town, like a realization that comes
from a moment of doubt
we will grow
and you have no fucking idea
what we’re capable of
