My town is saw dust pasted with Elmer’s glue…

It is a bitter-root.

All hung from a broken clothes line.

Then eagerly wrapped in a metal song.

To locate it?

Extend a dampened index finger to the air.

A gentle breeze of dirty diaper and bargain store candy…

will point you there.

∞

Simple abstracts of a pool melting with bleach blonde hair.

But of course, there is a Central avenue heading toward mediocrity.

Travelers among the cracks in pavement unearthing blunts of conformity.

My town regulates in a rash of red radish blemishes.

And, cankers living amid infected sores.

My town did not ask for me.

Nor, I for it.

However, we both tow the line with similar peculiarities.