Triumph of the depression
     That resides permanently in some places
     Where ruins have been ruins forever,
     Always abandoned the same five years before,
Bus terminal like a poultry coup,
Litter without litterers,
The same clump of aged abandoned cars
     Sprouting weeds and vegetation,
     As five years of growth reclaims them
     For the Earth.
The facades of the town
         Waste into Halloween masks and
That modern phone booth stark in the corner
Serves an unfortunate function --- Ma Bell
Would tell us how far fallen
     An innocent bus terminal can be,
     As Greyhound arrives without arrivals
     And takes away what few can go.
As the gods who plot the highways
     Lead them out ugly roads,
     Through other stenching stopping places,
     To some grand terminus
Of shiny sterile modern tile and plastic,
Leaving behind their litter
In that town of depression.
 

2/13/77

Index     The Basket Weaver