Back then, during the first boom, it was a company town, 
full of company houses, all alike, row after row, 
coming down from the mine, Number 1 or Number 3.  
Everyone appreciated the company;
it was better than tents.  
The men would come home, 
tramping down their rows to their houses every night 
to eat, to sit in the chair and read the paper until dark, 
except payday, 
when they would stop for a drink and come roaring home 
full of whiskey, ready to do their duty, 
another Saturday night, 
and couldn’t find their houses, 
they all looked alike.  
On one row, the women got together;
each painted her front door a different color, 
so her man could get home Saturday nights 
with some of the pay.  
They named it “Rainbow Avenue,” 
a lovely thought in a dusty world.  
The town grew and things changed, but not much.  
City fathers changed the name of Rainbow Avenue to 9th Street 
to conform to the times, the plans.  
Now there’s a new boom with major renovations and additions.  
Strip mines have replaced the deep black holes, like Number 3.  
They call themselves after pioneers, places with a mystique: 
Jim Bridger, Black Butte, lovely names.  
9th Street extends up the hill into a trailer court.  
Row after row of 70 footers and double-wides bought by the company 
flash in waves of aluminum in the sun, 
hundreds of ripples in the light stream.  
They are better than tents.  
The men turn their 4-wheel drives into their rows every night, 
come home to eat, to watch TV until dark, 
except, of course, payday.  
The women on 9th Street may have to have a meeting, 
take back their name, 
give the numbers to the mines, 
and paint the town doors 
for another Saturday night.