A Town of No Solution
Anthony Hammill
October 2023
He stood what appeared still to motorists
But to himself: in motion like a frantic plea:
Holding pamphlets and cards, hoping that those
who would read what his heart had to say would see
the resultant suffering, abject poverty, and decay every mother
felt and every father died in, that their children never knew
that one day, they would understand the fleeting of a city’s dreams
they once called home, but learned quickly to leave behind.
But he stayed, unsure if it was by choice or
wishes to fulfill, or that he kept finding himself back twice
for every once he left and swore he wouldn’t come back to fill.
He did his very best to make do with what we got:
“Frugality doesn’t seem so great when it’s all we got”.
He remembered the loving grasp of his father, leaving a black stain,
when he came home from the mines with some extra coal scrips.
Before one day never came back from work, so his plate
still had meatloaf and mashed potatoes on it,
until there were no scrips left.
He remembered his history, of his great grandfather,
who felt the dust from gunpowder and coal, which he couldn’t
discern, fall on his face, felt the dust turn crimson, and trickle down.
He wondered if his great grandfather ever wondered why the
people who were supposed to protect Americans
labeled them as traitors, anti-Americans,
and executed him as such (if he even had time to think that).
Again, he stood apparently still on a street corner,
with a grayscale postcard from back then, scribbled in
hasted black ink: “Remember our History!”
“Remember our History!”
Words that permeated but fell flat on his neighbors,
who gave him puzzled and sometimes scornful looks
He’d hear one whisper “Communist, son of a gun”
He remembered his history, when no one else did
walked to the hardware store, and looked at the red dynamite.
He walked along what remained of main street:
Broken glass, sparkled sidewalks, boarded up doors
and mom and pop’s that were reclaimed by nature,
he looked at the dynamite in his hands,
which were now sweaty.
He felt deafened by the silence of driving on
unkempt asphalt, and blew past the corner
he once stood on, where the postcard got carried away
into the wind of history and tragedy:
He looked back at the dynamite in the rear seat.
When he arrived where he needed to be:
the end of his own history; he looked at the dynamite
that he couldn’t keep still or dry.
He drowned out the noise of news anchors, cheers of a crowd
and honed into the speech of governor and senator:
heirs to the industry that defined his history.
As they announced closures of more towns,
histories and aspirations coming to an end,
he felt a few singes, as he sat front and center
He heard a deafening roar, but only for a millisecond.
Meanwhile, 50, 100, and 500 miles away,
Another town has the same history,
but not a tragic solution.
