With the recent arrival of spring in my far-north corner of the globe, my infant son and his heavy-duty stroller have been taking to the many narrow, sprawling gravel roads around our house, enjoying the brisk warmish air and the pensive sunshine. As I walk, I can't help but notice the houses we pass. Many are abandoned, and all are in some form of disrepair. Broken down trucks, boats, and all-terrain vehicles clutter the yards. This is a dying town: once a dream destination, the demise of the fishing industry and decline of tourism have left it struggling for survival. People who moved here in pursuit of the elusive "Alaskan dream" have discovered disappointment instead. Goals have tarnished; dreams have dimmed. It's depressing. So I wrote a poem about it.
I tread the
dust of rusty trails
Slow roads
Weave
through woods and willows
Spruce and
sprigs
And swamps
The cold sun
circles, never sets
While wind, wild,
tireless
Bites, fights
the warmth of rushing blood
Chills, and stills
Even strongest hearts
There, and
here, houses stand
Or sprawl?
Lazy,
half-done,
Slouching
back into the ground
Unsound,
haphazard, drunk
Broken down
cars surround,
Crowd each
house
And old RVs,
Skeletons of
parked dreams,
Clutter lonely yards.
(c) 2015 Janice Kaye
