Forty acres, to be exact, of once-
productive cornfield, now hard-packed,
gasping lawns, concrete driveways,
concrete Blessed Virgins, concrete deer.
Gleaming late-model mobile homes,
single-wide, double-wide, “deluxe,”
all mingled democratically
in arrow-straight rows.
Through open windows, we hear
the couple down the street is drunk again,
the old man next door is yelling at Fox News,
the creepy kid behind us has fireworks.
Tonight, we‘ll leave the porch light on,
keep the cat indoors,
lie awake in bed and listen
for tornado warnings.