small town checklist

railroad tracks crisscross across

the nation like

tiny bandages covering

a gaping scab on a knee                                                                                                                            

passenger cars slip away

into the folds of

the sawdust landscape

or boom towns                                                                                                                                            

the train whistle lingers

you wear it like earrings

or a birthmark

nestled, forgotten in the crook of your hip                                                                                                     

paper tickets belong to scrapbooks

glued down

instead of traveling between hands

conductor to passenger                                                                                                                                 

no crinkled dollar bills

are required to

lay pennies along the tracks

and watch train wheels squeeze them to ovals                                                                                                

or to extend arms

like a dancer/butterfly/tightrope-walker

and balance

soles of boots clinking against metal                                                                                                                

or to point out the graffiti

on the side of an abandoned box car

to a friend and

say you've seen it somewhere before                                                                                                                

small town america creeps

inside the neck of the city's sweater

into busy streets deserted at night

and corners lined with brick storefronts