It’s that black-eyed farmhouse —
foursquare and stone,
down by the silo, half-chumped,
at the butt end of a stubbed out town,
just north of the brashlight interchange,
north of the hotels, north of the pumps,
ticking like stocks, like futures,
southbound, transient, flashed all day
as burgers and bets, as cordwood —
five dollars a bundle — that mocks
all chips stacked against ruin.

Image: Cristina Gottardi on Unsplash

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