A Small Town on the East Coast

It’s a place too oppressive for dreams to grow. The stubborn few that sprout, like dandelions between sidewalk slabs, are run over by shirtless men on ATVs; trampled beneath the non-slip non-marking black soles of bustling seniors wearing fast food visors; crushed beneath the hurried, stomping steps of men between twenty and seventy, who flare their arms and hawk spit as they walk; their milky latex besmears the knees of those too full to stand; they’re playfully plucked in early morning moonlight by children in oversized sweaters, smoking king-sized cigarettes; or they’re confidently clip-clopped beneath the smooth soles of oppressively cologned lawyers, with puffed pinstriped chests and pomaded hair, who belong to the only firm in town. One mustn’t ridicule the proud lawyers. They’re the ones who blossomed, tried to germinate lush gardens, failed in the presence of competition, and wilted back to the dark cracks of defending drug dealers, domestic abusers, and trap-line cutting fishermen.