It took me a few reads, but I really liked the poem by David Huddle in last week’s New Yorker.
At first, I couldn’t place the scene he was describing. Interestingly enough, the first thing I searched for were photographs of “Appalachia” in the Library of Congress. The hill countries and knotted forests, the dying trees on the coal-mined mountains, the long driveways full of old cars. The houses, rotting and peeling, peering into yards through the barrier of wrap-around porches.