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.