Welcome To Gnarled Town

You won't see a sign but you are welcome to our forlorn sidewalks
and winding forest parks.
The painter in the coffeeshop will talk your ear off if you let him;
but he's smarter than he seems; just read the symbols on the
wall.
The mayor wouldn't welcome Kerouac, and he won't stir for you; he's
staring glazedly at his betas,
eternally tearing each other's fins off.
The butcher doesn't say much, and he voted for Hitler, but he never
sold a bad steak and replaced a few good ones in his day.
The town hero is building another house with arthritic claws that
somehow grip hammer and nail.
The bowling alley's been closed a year now so the citizens mostly watch
the brave new world on the television screen, though they've seen it
twice before.
Old man Finley's miserable company, and you wouldn't want to work for
him, but he greases the wheels of commerce with his own family's
blood.
The baker's a cheery soul, full of sound and fury,
and I beg you forgive him his version of a baker's dozen.
Our barber still has leeches;
and you'd do well to attend church.
And Gnarled Town may well have an exit sign;
but the only exit's in a hearse.