Struggle VII

Andrew R. Duckworth

The small town,
That one in the middle of nowhere,
But the epicenter of everywhere
Growing up,
That one.
It was there I felt warmth,
But also the cold,
Hard slap of betrayal,
The icy waters
Of a rumor pool
Splashed upon my face,
Disgraced by those who
Barely knew my name.
I saw her one time,
That devil of a woman
Too much of a coward
To face me, shopping
Around at the department store.
I muttered the most
Terrible, disgusting thing
I could about her under my breath,
But, being unlike her,
I made sure and stayed clear
Of the little phone that could
Operate the loud speaker.
To this day, I’m not sure if she
Was there to purchase items
Or look for the faces of new
Victims that would be the center
Of her fictions.
I would say I don’t care,
But I do.
I care for the helpless ones
Who would be the talk
Of the hair and nail salons.
I care for my friends,
The best that one can have,
Hoping they never have to deal
With such outrageous slander.
I care for the nameless ones,
The ones overlooked,
Who no one would realize
If their names are mercilessly
Destroyed by a monster.
I care for those who look
For the love that a small town
Can bring, but who won’t find it.
I care for the ones
Who might not be greeted
Out in public,
Because someone said something
That someone said one time
About how someone else
Claimed something about them.

That small town,
It has charm.
It has love.
It has great people.
It holds safety.
It holds friendships.
But it also holds the talkers,
The ones entertained by twisting
The lives of others,
And, for that, the two will
Forever be synonymous.