To the Town

Here’s to the town that distrusts its keepers.
With dead ends and coulda-beens
that tend to happen
when the farthest thing away is only a quarter of a mile.

Superiority! Distrust! Didn’t you read the sign?
It’s my-way-or-the-highway, baby.
These hills are off-limits.
They’ll never be yours to roam.

Don’t tell me that I’m bitter,
I knew that already.
You’ll have better luck spitting your words
at those claustrophobic horizons.

This Venus flytrap will close slow,
But you’ll be too busy sipping nectar to see the teeth.
And then you’ll be drunk.
The trees grow taller every year.

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