Hubby and I patronize various ethnic eateries in our area. Many are hole-in-the-wall joints located in the shadiest parts of town. One is a Mexican food truck set up in a Laundromat parking lot. The lady can throw together an awesome Cubana torta in about twenty minutes. Sometimes we call ahead; other times we just sit in the car and wait. The houses are rundown — peeling paint, missing shingles, broken windows repaired with plywood. Nearby businesses offer beer and wine, lottery tickets, payday loans, burner cells, and vaping supplies. Lucky people drive rusted-out Chevys with loud mufflers and stereos; unlucky ones plod to the bus stop in dilapidated shoes, or push carts containing all their worldly possessions. Cardboard signs are rampant but no one gives them a second look unless they’re creative or funny.
Is this what “Making America Great Again” is supposed to look like?
RUST BELT CITY*
Out by Fast-Cash, shame-faced homeless folks
beg, while jonesing addicts trade sex for dope
*This poem is a Try-burn; an earnest attempt at a Tyburn. The extra syllables and oblique-ish rhymes make it imperfect, yet an accurate reflection of the flawed world we live in.
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