by Max Hjortsberg
The poorhouse on Chicken Creek was torn down
Years ago and now the broke get to live
In their cars, shining metallic turtles
Blending in at the Wal-Mart parking lot.
We’ve got eyes in the sky they like to say.
Aimless on a cloudless winter’s day I’m
Circling, looking for a spot to park,
But really, all we’ve got are feet of clay.
I step on it and we race out of town,
A practiced act like bowing a fiddle,
Returning again as we always do
To our small home, the cradle of the wind.
The tree is old moss grows toward the north.
It’s of no use. We lean against the trunk.