Omaha, NE, where I basically hail from and where I lived for a number of years, has a very vibrant music scene. That includes the indie rock movement of the 90's through today, plus active jazz and blues venues.
Any town along the Missouri or Mississippi rivers is likely to have such.
This is a poem written about the river and the railroad and the town - and transcience, like childhood or other drifting things. Originally published at Texas A & M:
Porch Front Blues
I can see
Peonies break their crowns
on the sidewalk in summer -
no longer the leonine orbs remembered
of childhood.
The city is a tumbleweed
that looks as if it will blow
down river, south, twards Texas.
Even the new green is a ruse,
hiding bits of garbage
and tanned old men who gather behind
the house to drink vodka
and sleep, wrapped lossely in their skins.
Transients migrate north
in summer. I have heard them
talk shop in the library steps -
say Nebraska is a nice place to be
when the weather is good, but
cold as stone in winter.
I have seen them sleeping
free as new released birds
in the library chairs
face east toward the riverfront
windows a sky
made of glass and clouds -
all part of their vision.
Today, air blows hot
a bubble of heat
quivering over buildings that have stood
one-hundred years
painted old men of the prairie
their structures sound,
but wrinkling a little.
I guess it is all just snapshots
we hold for ourselves -
The ideas we have of people and places
shut out the rest easily
drive by, drive through -
the cracking streets,
so clean through car windows,
plastic bags blowing in the wind -
new flowers.
