Colonel Williamson cleared this land
built this settlement,
buried his daughter:
1793, Genesee fever.
Sex offenders live near her grave.
At night we hear the freeway:
rushing ghosts of our children
following lamps away
Once there was the Chat-a-Wyle,
Known for miles, the Chat-a-Wyle,
Once there was the Chat-a-Wyle,
The diner on Main Street.
The Colonel strides in the moonlight to
pitch-pine tavern, whiskey,
drinks to his pilfered land of
crumbling sidewalks,
proud churches,
neighbors on porches,
closed kindness,
dollar stores, feral cats.
He took this land for his people:
rugged white father,
unreckoned sins
Country steak and sticky buns,
For old and young, sticky buns,
Country steak and sticky buns,
Coffee salad bar sweets.
The city down the interstate makes:
ethnic cuisine, fiber optic filament,
specialty glass, opportunities for
engineers and immigrants.
Our town makes:
off-color jokes and pie.
Locked up dark with for-sale sign,
Staff resigned, for-sale sign,
Locked up dark with for-sale sign,
Stale air and cobwebbed seats.
The Colonel grips his musket in moonlight
scouring the dark for dark skin.
Your people feel you, Colonel Williamson.
The plaque in the park bears your name.
We dwindle safe in the town you made;
we nestle below the highway and
hobble to childless death.