Our Town

Gray granite arching out of moody waters,
An island only known by name,
fishermen by trade-it’s a game,
Heroin drugs fish and guns,
Our peaceful abode no longer that sound
Was it ever?

Was it ever what we say it is?
Are we all Fitz Henry Lanes,
Do we all paint luminous skies,
Or does our town have creativity,
Of course it does!

Our Town is filled with art,
Unique people every corner,
Stories and masterpieces abound,
So why must we sit around,
Why must we fret?

We fret over little things,
Pleasing people,
The outside we cling onto as a worker to its queen,
A cavernous honey dome centered around one,
We please we please so that we do not sink,

No school of fish are we,
We are a magazine model,
pretty, plastic, altered,
To please- to please,
An image we must uptake,

For one for only,
For upkeep-for safety,
Prisoners at the hand of green,
We cling,