Broken Benches

I had warm visions of visiting my old home,
relaxing, contemplating the distances I roam.
Coming down Fall leaf strewn highways,
reminded me of past crisp autumn days.
I thought everything must be right
as evening skies turned to dark night,
heading into my hometown.

Down Congress Street I slowly motored;
no bright shops, boarded windows instead.
I wonder where all the stores and people went,
doors, locked signs showing building for rent.
There used to be groceries and junk shops,
what about Diconzos, one of my favorite stops?
Missing the Home in my Hometown.

I headed across the Bridge to Route 108,
to visit my brother before it was too late.
They used to get up early in this town,
but more and more they lay around,
no jobs to be had with the mill draw-down.
What happened I wonder with a frown,
to my memory of my hometown?

I had a great idea with the sunrise,
it brought a sparkle to my eyes.
I would visit the Rumford Public Library,
then read in the park under a tree,
listening to the Androscoggin flow by
like I did when I was in Junior High,
the glory days of my hometown.

I found a newspaper, headed out the door,
scanning headlines and wanting more
than the usual small town stories,
only to find the old park grown up in trees.
Broken benches with no wooden seat
in a place that used to be so neat;
more lost pride in my hometown.

I frowned sadly and looked around.
Still captivated by the river's sound.
I know I came to the right place,
now damaged and left in disgrace.
A beautiful respite I remember years ago,
left to summer's heat and winter's snow.
Is this the fate of my hometown?

I think of the rest of my community
and shudder at the thought of disunity,
widespread corruption and greed.
I wonder in this time of deep need
if it will always bear this rotten stench,
or be left in squalor like an old park bench.
Please save my hometown.