The highway to this town is lumped with road kill.
The people in this town leave their cats out at night,
don’t break for squirrels.
Hear the bang at 3 a.m. and go back to sleep;
don’t make the call.
The people in this town are mostly white,
Smoke from crack pipes in this town
mixes with fog off the river, muffles the crying.
The mothers in this town are not wives:
push rickety strollers up hills in grey sweat pants,
scrape their hair back.
The fathers in this town are not men,
invest in tattoos, beer.
Cougars roam the back properties of this town,
The monsters under the beds in this town