Sunday, March 6, 2011

Sixty-Six Miles From a Freeway

Sixty-Six Miles From a Freeway

At the county fairgrounds a dog barks at men
taking down junk stalls and the ferris wheel.

An August midnight full moon and an angel purrs,
wraps golden legs around her drought-town's quarterback.

The preacher leans back in his auction-bought barber's chair,
reads Ezra 7, waits for the deep kiss of sleeping pills.

The coroner makes a cup of sugary coffee,
plays with a matchbook covers collection left by the dead.

The banker phones a farmer, I'm prone to extend your loan,
but I've had to boil my own grandmother's head for sustenance.

Nebraska wind blows scraps on paper sacks, empty cans,
sheets of newspapers: the town wrinkles up for a door rattling night.

At the county fairgrounds, the work near-done, a man brags,
Once had a woman who'd give you a headboard concussion.

Lash of hard days: maybe you remember tall grass, your grandfather's
buckskin jacket, his wild herd of imported-from-Texas Longhorns.

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