‘Podunk Towns’ have always struck me as 

comfortable places to live.

They appear on roadtrips, on worn down roads

with a gas station at the corner.  

Kids are walking away from school, 

and to the local drug store to get 

slushies and monsters like they do every Friday. 

 

“People don’t go to the old Church anymore,” 

the old woman at the till would tell you, 

scanning your Arizona iced tea and mini donuts. 

“Why don’t they?” You would ask, picking them up.  

“Turns out the priest cheated on his wife.” 

She would twist the ring on her finger, a diamond 

encrusted cross wrapped twice around. She’d smile. 

 

In these towns, if you listen closely, you’ll hear yourself.

Counting down to find someone, 

to go searching through the park.

Searching didn’t always mean finding.

At the age of six, searching never gave you anything.

Searching began another game of observe. 

Observe the man on the benches, smoking his fifth.

Observe the restaurant across the street, 

with the woman receiving a gift .

Observe the best places to hide somewhere

not even you, best of seekers, could find, but

 

If you paused time and looked around, 

you’d find the secret things your own city hides from you. 

You’d find the girl from second period behind the alleyway,

and your preschool boyfriend in the smoke shop. 

You’d find the old schoolhouse, with more vibrant walls and better stories.

You’d find the old grocery store, with free samples of apple juice and crackers, and 

 

You would look across the pothole covered street,

and you’d see yourself on the other side of the asphalt. 

She’d look clean, with softer hair and a brighter smile. 

In an instant you’d know exactly who she is. 

Time-loops and clocks swirl around the hoola-hoops

of the kids in that second story building on First Street. 

Every city has a First Street, and none of them were the first one. 

But from the look in her eye, you know this must be the first.