It’s a part of life, here, in this mining town,
anywhere, really, people move.
That doesn’t stop the hurt
of supposed abandonment,
the winter-black windows
coldly shrug their indifference,
the light has gone out, the loss is final.

There’s a saying on a bumper sticker
stuck on my wall, near the ceiling,
“If it can’t be grown, it must be mined.”
This simple fact is stunning
in its depth of fundamentality.
Neighbors of similarity are hard to come by,
copper supercedes preferences,
allocating space to the first in line;
the mine’s need for laborers is great,
the need of personal progress is greater,
people move in, following their dreams,
people move on, discarding their dreams.

The dogs bark at each other
for the last time, Chihuahua voice
shrills to Shar-pei’s deep song of farewell
as the U-haul pulls away,
the last house on this dead-end street
struggles in the throes of relinquishment,
echoes with childish laughter,
resounds into my silent future,
mocking permanence of friendship.
Bereft, I wave goodbye.

Erin Moen
11/16/03
Copyright 2003 ©