Jonquière

The town from the autoroute

looks like a pincushion.



The wooden poles,

holding the lifelines that enter the veins of the village,

stick up between the squatting houses.

Erected in the ground,

frozen,

the poles cannot sway in the screaming wind.

The men of the village,

too are pinned to the ground,

working night shift at the aluminum plant,

while their wives get pedicures

and shop at the local strip mall.

Anchored to this life,

generation after generation,

like paper dolls-clothes pinned on.



The poles stand silent,

their glory ravished,

    ugly oval blemishes

where their vibrant leaves and branches

    were ripped from their torsos.