They're Just Passing Through

[spacecoaster]

I love this poem. I think shortening the poem would help as sometimes i was a little lost concentrating on the small words such as the, and, a. I highlighted the words i think would benefit from removal.
They're Just Passing Through
We don’t need much,
we don’t need much at all. I like the feeling i get from the beginning. Life is simple and good.
We’ll trim our lawn on Sundays,
we’ll buy a pumpkin or two next week,
and we’ll keep our Christmas lights up all year—
damn right we will!
And we’ll leave the TV on, too! all the "ands" kind of bother me
And then our little house will glow,
and all those quickly fading faces driving by
will see the chained up filament filagree framing the dancing glow of electricity,
light buffeting against the silver screen.
Maybe our little house could use a fresh coat of paint;
the years have brought with them a slow, geriatric shift
from a once creamy white to a now jaundiced yellow–
I admit she’s a little worse for wear,
but I think our lights make up for the gritty smog that spews out I start to feel drab here but i like it. I get a sense
from all the busses and all the cars filled with lonesome travelers; mindless desperation.
I think they make up for the smog that drifts across our battered aluminum siding
and stains it like a sickly lipstick kiss, never to be washed away.
Y’know, one of these days I hope one of those lonesome travelers
will drive by our little old house, in the dead of night, and see us;
eyes combing, searching through the blurred pastiche
of the half-dead darkness that wraps its hand around this place
and squeezes, chokes out all the summer green and leaves behind a wasteland—
I hope one day that as that lonesome traveler’s barreling down the road in his rusty rotted cage,
the unforgiving blackness surrounding him,
the crushing monotony of that same mile driven ad infinitum storming the last bastion of his infantile hope;
I hope he looks at our little house as it falls.
I hope his thoughts drift back through long forgotten avenues of home
to elation that costs a nickel at the corner store,
to showers of shredded technicolor gift-skin filtering through toasty air I love this imagery
that’s laced with the lingering scents of spiced cider and burning pine. This line too!
Y’know, we’ve always heard them say
that desperation is the only fuel that drives a U-Haul this far north,
and we’ve spent enough time here to know how true that is—
we’ve seen too many grey faces floating onto the bus,
hollow, disembodied, frames wrapped in scratchy faded flannels—
we’ve seen too many to turn a blind eye.
I just hope one of these days one of those grey men will settle his ambling, languid gaze
on our little old house, if only for a second.
I hope it soothes his desperate ennui,
tousles his greasy hair, I love the ending and how I feel like everything is okay.
gives him a playful punch on the arm—
a reason to keep going.