Broke-down Palace, strangers call it—
Judgment of blind, arrogant outsiders.
They’re impoverished in ways
I’m glad I’ll never know—wealth,
With its everything-new shine, conceals a deathtrap.
This is my town, home by adoption.
I love every inch of peeling paint…much like the
Fond faces, old-timers still holding on—
Enjoying coffee and pie everyday
In Bev’s Bakery, chatting over two-page ‘Gazette’.
The church is a mess—pews that squeak
And shimmy, loose from generations of
Stand-up, sit-down, kneel;
The furnace frequently quits in winter,
Forcing everyone to sit close, to keep warm.
Broke-down Palace…community of 1001 humble saints.
© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.
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