Why are all screen doors torn out in small town flatland Texas?
Bugs big as your fist worm their way through sagging
rusted metal without its sheen, orangeish iron careens
unsprung from dull bent tacks like drunk cowpokes lost
and sickened fast, metal thin as an elder’s skin
floats like dying tissue in the bloated breeze.
They heave their red meat guts on the kitchen floor,
heat stroke can hardly close the door against rough
and tough Neolithic insects or snuff lipped humans,
bowlegged unsung curmudgeons such as these.
August marauders try to beat the fucking never-ending heat,
do their best to wreck all rest in your messy nest, the downbeat
casita of squalid unspent dreams,
leave slithered trails of meandering yellow spittle
on this chipped bowl of half-eaten spilled granola
like a gruesome grieving pilgrim Gretel sans
her roly-poly ‘round up them
usual suspects’ Hans.
Now that you’ve read of Texas and its few proudest,
recall how The Late Poet writ it well, (hell, best):
“Good torn screen doors bug fake and boring neighbors.”
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