Aren't You Forgetting Something?
The belly of the photo album has gone bad,
sepia-washing a 1962 rhododendron dell.
Why, little darlin' asked, do you declare envy
for any man who owns dozens of fenced goats?
It was a thin, wind-blown year in that country of ceramic
blue flowers encircling ancient tombs. Others' dreams are boring.
Whirling dust and row upon row of unmarked pioneer graves
no one could see. The docent said, You might check back later.
The artist wore a man's XXL T-shirt, made little crack-up giggles
as she glued together sheets of wind-blown cardboard she had collected.
She also had a trove of tin cans and medicine bottles from ghost towns.
She was making glitter-red cardboard apples, ... so delicious, no?
The fever and its twin fell upon me. Our room faced clanging flag poles
at the front of the motel. To be tranquil is to be dead... price tag on a toe.
The sparsely stocked Rite Aid store was out of photo albums.
The artist with the baggy T-shirt petted herself, scared the clerk.
If we had caught a train home, a pasta-eating couple from Des Moines
would've been seated at our table, would've gassed-on about Jesus' love.