Good Grief

Stars are painted
tin foiled twinkle
that hang overhead
the Xmas tree lot
and trailer shed.

A bald bulb
strung across
the graveled path
is the only living
thing besides
the balsams and firs
cut months ago.

They’re not long
for this world
dropping needles
and losing sap
as they choke
automobile fumes
and the watch’s
cigarette smoke.

I look.
But good grief,
the loneliness
on the corner
of vacantcy
is more than
I can stand.

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