Return for a funeral

It looks better in the rain, like a movie set 
of some God-forsaken little town
of commonplace people with just enough spit 
to put together drab accoutrements 
for a tale of woe.

The rain slides down the landscape
and windowpanes of the peeling-paint houses,
mostly white and small and close,
over the awning of the news agency,
across the dull red brick of the town hall,
into the door of the Dunkin Donuts
squatting out-of-sync in the run-down
square of late 19th century houses converted 
into hair salons and hardware stores and second-hand
clothing shops. A New England town with no Bullfinch
and few good federal buildings. An old shoe town 
with no shoes left, farmland converted 
to driving ranges and ranch houses, 
but with enough woods still for children 
to get away from the gritty day-to-day

A good setting for a New England tale of changing 
times, migrations and the havoc of dreams of escape 
to a better life, or just to Boston, daunted by the pull 
of duty or fear. Of crimped ambition,
expectation, small-town gossip,
comradery – too much, too little there.

The rain suits it well
washing down the drab struggle
with its tears.

For those who know me and the community I might be referencing, please note I was on my way to a funeral and it was raining.