A Ghost Town in Nevada; Roadkill Alley by John Grey

A GHOST TOWN IN NEVADA

Sun rises lazy over 

bones of sagging rooftops,

slowly burnishes

the dust of Main Street, 

brushes past cobwebs in shopfront glass.

Rays glance off fallen gates,

peeling paint, the tireless Chevy

that sleeps in weeds, 

a hunk of rust with battered license plates.

Sun gilds the sootless chimneys, 

numbers on empty mailboxes,

the pond that draws stray birds

but not people.

By dusk, light’s seen enough.

The dilapidated buildings give up

the pretense of being a town.

The abandoned mine

is as dark as always.

The sun never bothers

with going down there.

ROADKILL ALLEY

Please, enough of these corpses

by the side of the road.

I’m just driving home.

I’m not a hunter brandishing

a Toyota for a weapon.

So why do I feel so guilty?

It’s as if I abetted in

the death of that raccoon,

was part of assassin squad

that squashed the poor gray squirrel.

In my house,

I’m just the one of me,

doubling down on kindnesses and caring.

Behind the wheel,

I’m everyone who didn’t

brake in time.