Cities of Abdication
Years past scenic overlooks and spilled bourbon:
hotel rooms with thin towels... tallow-stink soap.
You're acquainted with ice cream jeans.
One cannot forget old oak-framed mirrors.
A raw white sun rises like revenge-fire.
Low ceiling, false-luxury, metallic hotel rooms.
Then there's the happy dream of picking up
booze store boxes for a wobbly move to prairie.