In the land where tin rooves
tell stories with the rain,
and beasts with hooves
rule every lowland plain,

a lawnmower rusts in the overgrowth,
and a Mustang rots in a gravel drive
outside a trailer home;
a girl with a ball and chain lives there.
Her neighbors got money,
so she wonders how
they ever ended up here:

off a curvy road called Dogleg Street,
past about twelve outdated,
dilapidated, fallin’-down sheds,
surrounded by houses
with frameless, floorbound beds
and cricket problems.

A Baptist chapel has a congregation of fourteen,
including one family of seven
(who live somewhere else, much more comfortable,
and call their attendance ‘charity work’),
and a couple loners holdin’ out
for whatever hope’s waitin’
outside their open door.

And that girl lies there,
stretched out on a bare mattress,
fingers shaking as the crack pipe’s flame
licks her chapped lips
and the burn
never felt so cold.