Originally published in MO: Writings From the River, Volume II, Issue 1, p.122
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Phoenix, fly now above the country flock.
Appalachia oozes through pores, but as every week before,
To mix with Hippies like tar and feather.
Arriving separately, they come together to seek their bargains,
Hurl themselves there, and stick.
But this is a Sunday for sin. No more
Garage sale trash for a dollar. Bead bracelets
On clearance beside small baseball bats exquisitely made
To teach what for. On the lot next door, the big chain
Licks its lips, readies the city for concrete indigestion.
The old drive-in is empty. Every last flock left
With their beads, bats, and junk. Blankets and tables
Are lost. The old white screen comes crashing down.
Phoenix, fly east to the tunnel, leave the smell of plaza pep,
Turn from the orgasm of autumn’s changing colors.