The Sewage Comes From Within

Carving new creeks, nonchalant waters

wash out stern roads and trunk-fist

old bridges, the ditches robust with

bullhead, bluegill, perch and corn slag.

It ain't stopped raining for days.


Low towns sandbag but the sewage

comes from within. The mitigators

are scrubbing their palms for a fresh

carpet of greenbacks and backhanded

charlatans are rolling in from Kentucky.


Herring gulls perch on center pivot

rain machines, build nests in the shade

of Legion Halls, and Pelicans glide, dip,

surface and shake throat pouch splatter

on four bottom drag plow moldboards.


It ain't stopped raining for days, and deep-

pocket insurance hawks go rabbit-eared

as their losses spill out, burnt gristle

plaid wearing farm boys sleep in,

new creeks push indifferent to the sea.

Walking Hopper - a prose poem ►


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