sometimes they wave

there's something

about

driving a mere thirty miles

out of town

that you

begin to realize that

it's a different world out

there.

for some reason people

are unable to get

rid of their old

cars that don't run.

there they are in the driveway

or on lawns,

up on blocks,

rusting in the rain,

dull in the sun.

washing machines too,

blue

refrigerators.

ovens with the doors

open,

perhaps a cat

nestled inside.

people tend to sit out on

their porches

the further you get away

from town.

sometimes they wave their

thick arms,

with a fly swatter in one

hand,

sometimes they frown.