Tuesday, September 20, 2016


Here come the walking morning dead
presuming they presume again another
day. It's all the same : checkerboard 
washcloths and lame-brained tentacles.
Someone here seeks to order squid.
The 18-year old domestic who here
waits tables is doing her work for hire.
She's just had a kid and tells about it.
By the side of the building, the guy
with the rifle is glinting his carbine
straight for my eyes. Nice enough.
I want to cough, but can't be accused
of pneumonia. I want to yell and rant,
but can't be accused of that either.
Too much to lose, and I don't mean
Lautrec. They're trying to sell a '37
Ford in the side-lot nearby. Really,
really clean, new paint and sweet
as hell. I'd ask the price, if only
I had any money. I'm even afraid
to talk to the waitress, for fear of
getting friendly and raising the
tip. Egads! What a jerk.
Here is where the river-road runs;
where they took away the village
years ago; where they left the old
church hanging, like they always do.
Five houses, over there, solid in a
row, just slowly over time now fall
apart. A hundred hornets, and a
haystack window. The old police
station, at the edge, where the ancient
gas pump wires home for money now.
'Constable Purdy, send me something
here, today, right now, somehow!'

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