Passing Through

East coast towns are swallowed
by the breath of the ocean
salted, grainy air.
These countless picture-sized
connecticut villages.

Nameless and of olde English sentiments
crumbling buildings at the rail tracks,
dark ale pubs, fish and chip shops,
lone houses scattered
in the bare thickets of thorny forests.

There is an emptiness
you can see. A vacancy that fills
the space between daylight and the trees,
the pavement and the pedestrians,
the open doorway of old brick houses.

The metal sheen of cars
glistening the sun
off in the distance.