Another excursion, another small town,
a southwest sabbatical starting to drag,
with similar Main Streets and storefronts of brown,
each quaint city hall and its wind-tattered flag.
I'm walking in Prescott in midsummer heat,
deciding to stroll off the main boulevard,
on Whiskey Row Alley, the signs would repeat,
where once drunken locals had staggered and sparred.
A wall of dried stucco and paint would appear,
a colorful mural that seemed out of place,
depicting the past with such passion and cheer,
and each painted person as one to embrace.
The artists took care to present in best light
historic events and the ones who took part,
with pride, it was obvious, bold, yet polite,
I stare at the beauty they sought to impart.
I think of my feeling when first I arrived,
No matter the look of a township's confines,
the age of the sidewalks, if businesses thrived,
a city is people, not buildings and signs.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.