Deming

I look in the grit grimed windows, of this town...like the jaundiced, yellowed eyes of age in its old men and women. Everything here, leans a ways, to east...to find its balance. Stop signs, candy red once, now...wind blasted white, and sand scored, cracks in the brittle pavement.

Brutal stares of battlement, aiming blame, at every stranger come to town...how dare you end up here, in our misery and frustration! All that ever was, of hard and hateful, had a reason, come to claim a deed of sand, come here...to watch their dreams, get scattered in the wind, and back bent, hold out, like a bitter tree root...buried in the dirt.

A wave of hand, like a smile, is anathema to this kind, and that too, tans, then burns...and turns to dust, where eyes, downcast...no longer hope to find a friend. Yet, I know a heart can smile, even in its death, a thing can find a way to grow. No scorn or curse upon its soul, can stop its love from reaching up and...touching sun.

So, there is renovation in the works here, scrabbling in this chicken scratch town. I hear a whisper of redemption, sound a little like rebirth...something come'n better, than...when K-Mart left...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico