poetry by j matthew waters

three weeks after

the season is quickly changing
and most of the houses
are dark by 8pm

it’s hard to say how many
are abandoned
voluntarily or otherwise

the streets are littered with what
the winds left behind
there’s hardly any room
for any kind of truck to pass through

the smell of mixed wood abounds
whether freshly cut
or burning miles away
hundreds of wood chip pyramids
magically appear overnight

the carnival was supposed to be in town
(a fresh change from
all the other outsiders)
but it was abruptly cancelled
just like everything else

august two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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