of confederate flag, cornrows, a scarecrow
holding a machete. Would you call this home?
The ugly side of classic rock,
this elegy for mufflers and empathy;
all afternoon the neighbors scream at each other
over the lawnmower while somehow,
in her car seat, their baby sleeps.
The litter: plastic bottles half-filled
with dip spit, the pinched butts of cigarettes
smoked with a violent desperation
outside the discount grocers
and on the sidewalk under the shade
of a giant Maple. Call this a stereotype
or call it true, white trash
or helpless or hurt or hate. And how?
There’s a bit of everyone’s story here
in the canned meat and bleached flour, the dogs
leashed to bumpers and fascia
rotting away. Cats slide through a crawl space,
a child screams, a random firework goes off
in the distance. The miracle is in the miss
of the drum barrel bursting with garbage out back,
rusted and useless, dying to burn.
Photo by David Olimpio.
