36 west to gatesville

a rundown carnival
three rusted rides
and a few formerly
brightly colored tents
sits forlorn and dark
in the parking lot
of the tractor supply store
on 36 as you enter
sleepy little gatesville
a museum dedicated
to one man’s obsession
with spurs sits
across from a derelict
brick building covered
in posters that proclaim
puck futin in stylized font
an aberration in this
section of frozen time
somewhere north of temple
hidden in forested splendor
as i follow a trailer
with a sweet brown cow
chomping hay and staring
disinterestedly at me
as the rain comes in
little pockets i keep
an eye out for rainbows
as i contemplate home
not the shitty apartment
in the filthy sprawl
but the little town of
my irradiated childhood
and all the dreams i left
buried before the move


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