by Robert Beveridge
The dirt hard-packed, the eggs over-easy,
the main street as deserted as ever.
It’s a quiet place most of the time,
more sawgrass than charlatan. Strong
coffee and redeye, and we’re all
in between beauticians, even
the beautician. Hank down the general
sells uniforms out the side
if you know the password, ice cream
only to those under twelve
no matter how all fired hot it gets,
and every once in a while it rains
tiny red slips of paper for days.