lackluster

The clarity of this:
small town, potholes,
flooded riverfront, a
dead downtown.

The trailer park,
the ghetto, the boy
who broke into someone's
garage in broad daylight
because he was so strung up,
and so far down. You grew up
with him, and had a crush on
his little brother. You saw
him step on a nail. It went
through, held up the skin
like a tent, and you realized
that a lifestyle like this
pins you.

We spend our lifetime
trying to escape it, squirming
and worming around, but never
leaving without losing
moral limbs.

In a bar, a bigger city,
you tell the story to a stranger.
They smile sadly, nod, and say,
"I know the feeling. A lackluster
life doesn't seem worth living."