Riding Through A Dead Place

On 10 May 16

Homage to the remains of Connecticut

Racing south

Through an aged land,

On a train that can't tell time,

Crumbled rocks that once were foundries,

Skeletons that once were mills,

Now tagged and painted

Bright as clowns,

Mock my childhood memories.

Memories of hosts of men,

And women too,

Who once punched clocks.

They fashioned things,

They loaded trucks,

That now are still,

Rusted out,

Or shipped where they were useful,

To China or Brazil.

A lonely stack

Stands by itself,

In a field of trash,

And crumbs of brick.

On its side a long dead name,

Spelled with care in a long dead time,

Laid into it,

Brick by brick,

By long dead hands,

As if to last

Forever.

Its work has now gone far away,

Its peoples' hearts are stilled,

And now it rests forever cold,

A sentinel to vanished toil.

The pride that built that stack of bricks,

And laid that name so proudly in,

Has vanished with its kiln.

We don't know why the stack was spared,

While the mill was turned to dust,

The stack,

A man made fossil,

Bears witness to another time,

A Proof that once real things were made,

Right here,

Where now they don't make much,

And each day less and less.

God bless the Nutmeg State

That used to be.

Free trade?

It isn't really free.