Ashpan Texas

Your waking place
is a hollow-man’s town
with vacant homes
close to falling down

and solar-curled paint
peeling inside out
No drapes to draw –
now shadowed shrouds

That un-slept place
is your reading room –
all indexed resources
were wordlessly removed

There’s spines – there’s covers –
but no truth in sight
A baying Governor
set writ words alight

They say work’s returning
although don’t know what
They’ll be whispering lies
’til you thumb your vote

Your feared sun sits low
but still left life all peeled –
stealing a gloss layer
from that you had sealed –

taking your hours’ labours
of eye-cut brushes –
torching your hand of care
Your town’s burning up