Afire

My bag is packed. Perched on the skillet's edge,
I stare down at the dreadful things I see inside
Of it: the desert's sprawl, the fast-food joints,
The pawn shops, nail salons, and bars, each one
With wall to wall TVs, and servers mimicking
The tawdry showgirls strutting on The Strip, with
Shirts undone and push-up bras. I have to jump.
I hate this place, but from the skillet to the fire,
Eh? The bovines in Nebraska move in lines,
Their heads kept down. They make it known
That anyone who isn't one of them, or any idea
That is new will be not just rejected, but
Fought off. My clothes are burning. I should
Go, but can I find a place for me? My hopes
Are growing ever fainter. Still, my bag is packed.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 74 times
Written on 2020-01-23 at 11:23

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