The main streets of towns
don’t go uphill,
and the houses aren’t
purple like that
tenement with one eye
clapboarded over. Never mind
how it wavers
backward, watching you
try to find second gear.
You’ve arrived
at the top of the town:
a closed gas station
where nobody’s dog
sits, collarless,
and right next door
a church that seems
to advertise Unleaded.
Who’s hung this
great front door
above no steps? No one
you’d know.
And what suspends
the avalanche
of barn? Nothing,
and you will never
escape the bump,
lifting shiny with tar.
And you won’t
need the sign that says
you are leaving Don’t Blink,
Can’t Dance,
or Town of No.
-Wesley McNair