You see it in the eyes of mounted deer heads,
saloons of poetry's source materials:
barmaids in thin cotton gym shorts,
muted TV screens in strip mall offices
where kitschy shit-heels gossip
and namedrop planning commission names...
and you see it lined up for firing squads
at non-season traveling carnivals.
In the heyday of it all, when things mattered,
stovepipe hats had arrows through them.