Freeway Church

This place,

Moored in silent copies

Of homes that fell forgotten

With new times and other stories.


It leans back from view,

Into dark brown shingles

Worn in sun and storm

Fallen behind and piled

Along old trees and

New Spring grass.


Stories of families

Broken and gone for healing,

With chit chat smiles of angst

Tossed across a gravel lot

Of broken high heels

And closet cigarettes.


All of it, staring across the way,

Escaping with the glances of drivers by.

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