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BACK FROM THE ROAD
At sixteen I joined the carnival.
Now seventy, for the first time
I hobble back to my small home town
After years of being shot from cannons
And leaping through hoops of fire.
I ask a townie by the wayside
Who still living is near my old school.
He points and says, "There is your old school."
But a dirt lot is all that remains.
Discarded beer bottles and weeds lie
Where my buddies used to run the track.
Land surveyors size up the locale.
Under my arm are dated posters.
On the tip of my tongue are stories
Of every town I visited,
But without a friend to tell them to
I drop the past in a garbage bin.
I walk off dazed, unconcerned about
The tears rolling down my crinkled face.
C)opyright 2007 Joshua Meander - All Rights Reserved
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