Springtime in The Great Atlantic North East

 
The mountains scream
of renewal
but the air still smells of winter
standing outside
I sip from a tired cup of coffee
waiting for a lazy sun to arrive
I have resigned myself
to residing within this tiny hamlet
for the sake of others
but I feel like a third baseman
in the court of Camelot waiting for
the inning to change
for here the seventh inning stretch
is a way of life & the game
just drags on like that visit
to grandmas the one who
smells of mothballs & ben-gay
& all of her food tastes
like it was made from a cookbook
about the Great Depression

this town has a way of settling
into your lungs like powder
made from bricks & every road
out of town has a sign that reads
" you are now leaving the borough common-
thank you for not overstaying your welcome"
every time I read that I think
I should have taken their advice