Old Route 32
by Martin Indars
The name of Old Route 32 has changed. The rest remains mainly the same.
The road’s repaved every now and again. Then the cracks come back; the crabgrass still wins. The station’s two pumps now number ten,
but the gas in them smells exactly the same.
Some neighbors died; their kids have gotten old
in step with their houses — a few got sold. The “junky” house became the junkies’ house. But it’s better now and no longer either.
A friend down the road recently returned to bury his dead and lick his wounds. A bit weathered and odder but otherwise the same, he drives past Old 32’s pretty plains or the cul-de-sacs they became.
One thing about Old 32 is new.
Not the road itself but the view. Where once I looked ahead to where the road lead, I now just look back at that I’ve passed.
Martin Indars lives in Norwich, Ct. and works at Nippy’s Driving Range. His photopoems have appeared in Flora Fiction, October Hill, SAGE Magazine, and the Poetry Pacific anthology. They can all be found at www.martinindars.com.
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