61 North and South
converge on central stretch,
abandoned — by death or buy out —
for but two houses
separated by several (p)lots.
— from “several histories”
What do you do when there is a fork in the road, but neither has been tread upon. Neither looks like it will go anywhere. It’s desolate. It’s too calm. It’s winter and nothing resembles anything, because everything is gone. Two roads do converge, but both have been swallowed by nature. Both have been overtaken or over-ridden by man.
When buildings cannot speak for themselves, Ink’s 61 Central (Finishing Line Press) does it for them. These are scenes of desolation, of the desire to go back to when there was a language of people rather than debris. This is a chap that forces you to think about what your city or town looked like before man-made machines and weather and time took it all away.
This is “where tire tracks do not tread, / where patches of brown grass / creep through asphalt cranial cap.” This is when all is lost save for the memory and empathy for what has become of life and its surroundings.