This appeared in Chimaera.
A little town believes it is immune
From simony and tsores; lesser folks,
The big’uns from the City, pay to fret—
They’re born to fret, conformed to fret; the shapes
Of worry make the fortune of their faces.
A little town does not believe that woe
Is overnighted by the sun: the bill
Of lading comes due elsewhere. Yes, they know
About the sparks and how they fly, but still—
A little town? Our lucky life, they say.
Their daughters, up to Megaplex, keep pails
Bedside to catch the tears, while sparking boys
Think murder is an artform, and their spite
Colors the closet red. The roads escape,
Then disappear into an empty plain.
And yet the cornflakes keep on selling out,
The hotdog buns replenished. Say, the Post-
Gazoo is covering the Aphid Fest.
You’d think, the kind of life a small town leads,
Pies in each pocket, cakes in every bed,
You’d think the roads ran both ways, but they don’t.
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