Back to Carrollton.
Young me, face like a dishrag, keeper of the scene,
back from the unyielding redsand oceans
of the great wasted land:
watch me lie,
Stomping, mind flooded with irreducible patterns.
And so, back home
to the cow town.
Where the weary Kathleen aims an exalted kick at the groin,
and old Rabbit trots out, greeting her roadworn master.
For home is the fool,
home from his revelries.
An odor on his breath
of some kind of malted hop.
And whether or not he knows,
there is always bad weather.
An electric atmosphere hovers above
the blue-tinted sounds
of Lake Carroll.
No comments:
Post a Comment