Small Town Story

Harris Coverley

sat on the floor

the rough red carpet is the sands

at the base of the Rockies

(what does it matter that the Rockies don’t have sands?)

the white Artex wall is a Rocky cliff

and below are the shoe boxes

the hair colouring boxes

the crisp packet boxes

this is the little town

I have not yet christened

(and never will)

I have my little cars

not bigger than cigarette packets

in fact, some are cigarette packets

painted harshly in chunky green paint

purple too

mixed in the cellar

I am the ruler of this town

I can see the sheriff

the sheriff’s deputy

the other townsfolk

the couple who run the diner

but I am not yet six

I cannot give these people the pain

they would otherwise have in real life

I am not Stephen King

I am not Joyce Carol Oates

Nor am I Annie Proulx

I know nothing of race-hate

or wife-beating

or abortion

or class warfare

or degenerative conditions

these people (for now) have no pain

I do not wish to give them pain

there is enough of that in my life already

and I can be alone with them

in their placid state

for just a little longer

trying to keep that spark alight.