Middle of the Sky

Low Place, SC.

It's the dullest of cities in the middle of the sky. 
It's a place you've already been,
But where you'll never arrive. 
It's every town. 
And it's nowhere.
Welcome, where are you going? 
 
Like if you drove down Main St. you'd see,
Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. 
A bike shop, an ice cream store, 
A Taco Bell, now that's original. 
"Hey, didn't they just build another Walgreens?" 
On the corner of happy and healthy, 
A video store that's going out of business, 
Thanks Netflix, for putting solitude in business. 
A pizza place and a mattress store, a torn down Roll-A-Rink.
And a Starbucks. 
Even our coffee shops aren't unique. 
We coughed and choked on the mundane. 
Every front a name brand, 
Every person listens to the same band. 
There's only two radio stations worth picking up. 
 
Like if you drove through my neighborhood, 
You'd hear the silence,
Of old cars in their garages, 
And old people in their recliners. 
No children have laughed here, since my sister and I rode our bikes,
Around a cul-de-sac that never ended, 
It taught us about our town. 
 
Like if you drove downtown, 
And tried to find city hall, 
You'd get lost in abandon store fronts, 
And glass buildings for furniture showrooms that show up like Christmas trees and Easter bunnies. 
There's a bank and an old hardware store, 
And maybe a bus station, 
Left behind for the hands of criminal artists, 
Trapped by the abandoned rules. 
 
Like if you tried to nail it down, 
You'd catch your hands under the hammer.
Because they say it's a city,
But I called it a small town.
We've got a Target and Chickfila on every street, 
And a public schools of 700 kids,
So isn't that a city? 
Yet I've ridden these streets so much I see my Polaroid memories
In the potholes of the pavement, 
And I know the people at the post office by heart.
So isn't that a small town? 
We're cursed to be average,
Neither big nor small. 
Too large to be quaint.
Too small to be important. 
We're caught on the train tracks of our train-less tracks. 
 
Low Place, SC. 
It's the dullest of cities in the middle of the sky. 
The people who drive through never stay. 
The people who grew up here say it's fading. 
"Get out while you can."
 
Peddle to the meddle, 
I took that road, and followed their advice. 
And I hit a golden highway with fool's hope in my eyes. 
I found magic and stardust, 
And I found tears and laughter, 
And I found a town or a city much like mine, 
But the Walmart is on a different corner. 
 
And when my car came back home,
My bags now full of new experiences, 
Low Place, SC still looked the same. 
They changed the movie marquee, 
And maybe the hardware store closed, 
But my tires knew their way back home,
And my heart knew it's little life. 
Nothing much had changed in the little city in the middle of the sky, 
Except one thing. 
Me. 
 
Low Place SC,
Was never much for words.
It wasn't much for aesthetic, 
Or cultural events or flashy lights. 
It's outdated and it's fading,
Like that old video store. 
But I could have been born anywhere in the world,
And yet this place is home. 
 
For this is where I bought my first bike,
Where I learned to eat an ice cream cone without dribbles on my chin. Where I sat in Taco Bell laughing with my best friends.
Where my family ordered pizza buffets every weekend.
Where I shared my heart over pumpkin spice lattes.
Where I learned to skate without 
holding the wall. 
Where my daddy pushed me on the swing. 
Where my mother taught me how to read.
Where I learned to fly and learned to fall. 
Where I fell in love,
With life. 
 
Low Place, SC. 
A dime a dozen city in the middle of the sky. 
Like a thousands of people feel just like me,
In their little city in the middle of the sky. 
Like my story isn't special,
It's just the coffee shop on Main.
Yet the baristas with their uniform aprons,
Are never all the same. 
As atoms explode and stars collide, 
Seven billion stories unfold at the speed of light. 
They can't all be special, 
But they are. 
Simply because exist. 
We have breath in our lungs, and streets with no names, 
Maybe we are the souls that society comprises. 
Maybe we are the spark in the dullness. 
 
Low Place, SC. 
It's the dullest of cities in the middle of the sky. 
It's a place you've already been,
But where you'll never arrive. 
It's every town. 
And it's nowhere.
But it's where I am. 
And it may not be much to look at it,
It may be like a thousand other towns across the vast and fruited highways. 
But it's my little page for my story,
It's my little piece of the middle of the sky. 
Welcome home. 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Our world

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