Robert M. Simmons  

from Morning in Middleborough... (Poems 1991-2006)     

           Evening in Middleborough

As in the west Sol starts to slip,

with colored flags aboard his ship,

comes Erebus to claim his seat,

casting dark shadows down the street.

It is a time for Man to know

the comforts of his bungalow,

to nestle in the inglenook

armed only with a pleasant book,

or settle in an easy chair

and hibernate without a care,

or catch up with the evening news,

or maybe have a peaceful snooze,

with Lares and Penates near

dispelling all domestic fear,

safe from the Furies of the night

who seek out happy homes to blight.

Their mischief begins soon enough.

A beer can strikes the pavement rough,

is carried by a sudden breeze

the length of Main Street, if you please,

making a racket as it rolls

to serenade the sober souls,

until it stops to give offense

in front of some neat residence,

which is a very minor theme

within the universal scheme

as Erebus directs this rage

from his dark corner of the stage.

The symphony about to start

for volume has no counterpart.

A little car with lots of sound

makes music heard for miles around.

This cruising concert undulates

clear through the walls of large estates,

causing most kinds of pets to fly

for cover as it passes by.

While music menaces the block,

motorcycles begin to flock.

They swarm like squads of fighter planes,

assaulting folks on country lanes,

with smoke streaming from polished chrome

and noise to wreck a tranquil home.

From their terror find no reprieve

until the time they choose to leave.

In fairness after such attacks

there should be leisure to relax,

but Furies have a job to do,

and so chaos begins anew.

Starting early, extending late,

shrill sirens never do abate,

as denizens out for a ride

are somehow destined to collide.

Each crash creates its own uproar

with rescue, police and much more,

since people throng to view these things

like moths to flames go with their wings.

Just when one ruckus seems to cease,

another din disturbs the peace.

Now tribes of youth wander the land,

fast-food wrappers firmly in hand.

A picket fence is where they seek

to leave their litter for the weak,

as warriors of long ago

might flaunt the cleft head of a foe.

While strutting boldly down the street,

they look for traffic signs to beat,

which sound like symbols made of brass

to wake those sleeping while they pass,

screaming loudly along the way

as if they had something to say.

In time the Furies stage a storm

as with Erebus they conform.

It whips across Nemasket Hill

finding each roof and windowsill.

Those with abodes in disrepair

will know the meaning of despair,

as sleet pierces each brick and board

like flimsy armor by a sword.

The household deities have hope

without their help the town can cope,

for to the closets they have fled,

guarding their own welfare instead.

The clock chimes say to get some rest

and pray that morning brings the best

when Sol sends Erebus away

and grants the town another day.

                          © 2003 by Robert M. Simmons

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Subjects: poems about, small town life, Middleboro, MA, evening, satire, poetry, poems

Evening in Middleborough