This Place

By Andrew R. Duckworth

Sometimes I hate this place,
The lack of scenery,
Green hills replaced
By paper boxes ready
To be shredded
By any given storm
Sweeping through
The metroplex, the boxes lined up-
Serving as a beacon
For brother destruction.
There are some tin cans stacked
One on top of the other,
God forbid we let nature be.
We seem to like our bowling pins
Awaiting the bowling ball.
Long lost is an art
Of sun-baked clay,
That art out west-
Sturdy and charming
Along the mountains.

We like our ice cream options,
Our burger options,
Our chicken options.
Who makes them? Who cares!
We’ll go because it’s there-
It’s quick and it’s easy,
And then we’ll look
From the backyard
Across the green-space
To the cookie-cutter buildings
Fresh out of the oven.
It’s a view that makes me
Long for Utah, New Mexico,
The Rockies in Colorado,
The desert bakery in Arizona.
But here I sit, too busy dwelling
To be even slightly productive.