They raced horses here once. And greyhounds.
Glory days, if filled with cruelty specific
to this place and its time.
Rock and rollers shook the glass,
bass echoing in the audience’s chest
day and night.
But that was a long time ago.
Times and people change.
We are good at abandoning
the things we do not value,
and now it sits, decades later,
empty and alone. A ruin
stripped of all things that have value,
a place for squatters and urban explorers
willing to scramble through briars and fences.
You stand and listen to the glass fall,
too aware that not all things get restored.
Only the ones we treasure.
About this poem.
About abandoned places. About abandoned people. Or whatever you feel it is about.
The picture is from an abandoned race track in Pownal, VT.