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My Little Town
driving through the streets of our little town...between the river and the hills i gaze from my passenger window and wonder...so many buildings empty so many homes hanging their heads...people rushing from here to there almost as if they didnt want to feel the pain...or see their ram-shackled homes then i'll spy one that tries to freshen their world with flowers and a flamingo but mostly i realize this is such a poor town...with so much pride in who they are there is an opposite side few will see...our favorite little buffet joint catering to us old folk...the people there cater to us with care and a smile i see a different world here...where money isnt the rule of the day where people talk to you...know your name when they greet you...treat you like family there is respect for your privacy...they arent overbearing...nor forceful these have become my people...the quiet ones...the accepting ones this is my home...where money is not the world...life is appreciated and enjoyed we all seem to be in the same boat...struggling to make ends meet...yet always there something the big cities seem to lack...too many people crowding the streets too many trying to keep up with the jones...but who do the jones keep up with my home...with a lot more to it than run down houses and businesses there's the river to watch and enjoy...the changing of the trees every season there's the fog rolling in from the hill tops in the morning...and the winters where the snow clings to the trees and the world becomes silent with awe i dont think i would have chosen someplace else to be...i have my serenity here i have my solitude...i can write my words and tell their stories and never know their names but i know their lives...they are poor folks...but they are proud folks who care about me and so i care about them...i dont want them to change...i dont want to lose the simple life Vote for this poem
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