I love this. It sounds like Highway 31 between Montgomery and Prattville,
except we also have places that sell mobile homes. You may have two
syllables too many in the last line. In that line the rhythm seems off to
me. A well-done poem with a timely and accurate depiction of an unfortunate
truth that apparently is not confined to any one place, and therefore it is
universal. I know that Shakespeare's audience littered the floor with
hazelnut shells. The only difference is that there were fewer people to
pollute and ruin.
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