A Sleepy Little Town - July 23 2020

A Sleepy Little Town

July 23 2020

But what little town doesn't look sleepy,

driving down the dusty main street

where a rusty awning squeaks

loud enough to hear,

a fat yellow dog

pants in the shade.

Where you're the only car that's stopped

at the only traffic light

you're sure is stuck on red.

Searching for the Interstate

and the exit you missed.

Feeling you should wave back

at the old men

who have claimed their regular bench,

where they shoot the breeze

and keep an eye on things

and complain about what hurts.

Wondering why the street's so wide

they can angle-park on either side

and still have 6 lanes left.

Forgetting that out here

there's more space than people,

and that its founding fathers

foresaw a new Chicago

once the train came through.

Ambitious men

who were builders and boosters

and certain the future was theirs.

And forgetting that this sleepy little place

is like everywhere else.

In the Star-Lite motel.

In the broken bottles

of Johnny Walker

in an alley back of the bar.

Behind the closed the door

when the shades are drawn

in the darkness just before dawn.

Sophisticates, and cosmopolitans

we motor through town

on our way to somewhere else.

Amused

by these folksy people

in their small insular world.

Sleepy, we think to ourselves,

tired by the long drive

and the miles still ahead,

dreaming of home

on the quiet cul de sac

and our own familiar bed.

I was reading a magazine article and was struck by the writer's use of this lazy cliche. How patronizing. As if people everywhere aren't the same: the same frailties, weaknesses, vices. The same pain and suffering. The same dreams and disappointments. And who knows what goes on – big city or small town – behind closed doors and after dark.