A scree of gravel patinas the asphalt.
From the corner, the town’s closed-down hardware,
grocery, Laundromat, car wash, drug store,
dry goods, pool hall, bank, feed-and-seed, car lot,
beauty parlor. In the fifty-odd slots,
a pale green Chevy half-ton four-by-four
from the eighties, a white Buick two-door
with black-mud sluicings up the fender skirts
and quarter panels. A hapless dog. The sun
at ten o’clock throwing hard, boxed shadows
that lean and stretch like something falling down
across the cracks in the duct-taped windows.
But things could be worse: living in Dallas,
Houston, or twelve miles up the road, in Paris.
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