i'm from a seasoned village, south of new boston. a place where people's faces are seen twice in one day. the homeless man beside the bakery shop. his jacket stained and stressed with the villages somber cries. the young ones hurt each day wondering what's outside the walls, away from the purple mists and above the seldom seen rays of the sun—the open hills to another place—another way of life.
brocktonians we are—swaying from hopelessness to the warm embraces of our small cottages, nestled together like fresh puppies against their mother.
