Old time electric chair on sale.
Speedy Sunday picture shows
whir in the tight back storage room
of an abandoned filling station.
Airport memory: the surgical procedure
to remove tulips from poets' lungs.
Cemetery stone inscription: Bootmaker.
Beyond the local bar,
a mile of highway
patched with lipstick-stained paper napkins.
Yes, I found painful inspiration
in a cut-glass volume of Turgenev's First Love.
Baby, I like how you walk around the house,
kids grown and gone,
with only a tattered, shrunken turtleneck sweater on.
A cow-calf pair grazes a small corn stubble field on Main Street.
I ain't never gonna be anything but love-hungry.
No cafe. But old, crumbling photographs of a cafe.
Afternoon whiskey in a jelly jar,
a woman shouts,
The sun seem louder than normal today?
After the discovery of fire,
school administrators organized
the burial of fire.
Them big ol' cardboard boxes
of astro-lawn squares...
the ones they got stored
in the old hotel...
they got some kind a weird
Running without lights on,
a county sheriff's cruiser
drifts up dark Main Street
to surprise any graffiti-maniacal
kid with a spray paint.
Three-thousand people lived here
'bout the time of the last
Over a dozen cans of Eagle brand peaches acquire
dust in a locked cabinet at the old funeral parlor.
Ought to be 'shamed a yourself
for that silliness.
At the back end of the graveyard,
a rusty shovel in sagebrush.