The sentries have taken their stations.
The checkpoints have cocked AK-47's.
Planes fly so low now, they make the roof shake.
The only justice is being a refugee,
Not having to cheat to succeed,
That was the thought when I went deep into Yermo,
In golden acacia, past the P.O.
And the general store and Burger Den,
Nothing for 50 miles in any direction
But this town built on ghosts,
Held up by crutches and springs.
The room that could be home offers birch beer,
Vintage gear ("cash only") back to 1907,
A fan for the 100 degree temperatures,
And the old ladies talk as if I was a friend,
About the weather, and whether
They'd need that booster shot now,
As if I had an opinion.
There is no hole left to climb in.
