Winesburg

I am walking along a back fence/not a concession line but the place/where corn meets dirt road

(Winesburg, Ohio map. Photo courtesy of Americanliterature.com)

Winesburg

I am walking along a back fence 
not a concession line but the place
where corn meets wagon road

The band is playing beneath 
the buckeyes and clouds lie close 
there is much to approve of

And so much to chance.

I am walking without a coin 
to spend because the train
comes for an exact fare

And too timid am I to ride 
the rails. Locomotives recommend 
dining with silver on linen

But corn tassels beneath my nails
and the smell of dry hay in my clothes 
carry a charm of its own

So I've nothing to spend.

The ball team will play at one
and I won't be here to see who wins
will my absence be noted among 

Men who place wagers on bare 
handed fielders and pitchers that
tipple (they do love their sauce)

I can't tell if the hotelier took 
a lasting interest in things I said 
he was polite as was his pale wife

They had a son who asked how long
I'd tried to write. He was as wistful 
as me a boy with fretful hands 

Always fussing with his hair.

Winesburg you leave me 
with impressions. You leave
me with visions of shag hickory 

Bark and falling gold the smoke
of your wood and the sound of an ax
athwack. Everyone uses their hands

Here save me. For a pen and paper
fall in my lap like manna. Like tiny
Ohio towns.

-Jeremy Nathan Marks