seven fat cows swat seven skinny flies from their skin,
watching weary travelers flip through visions
of highway hypnosis with
trembling fingers to touch the mirage ahead:
a tiny town in the heart of the vanishing prairie,
pale pink roses clinging to wrought-iron fences...
the sign...
‘Welcome to Pana’
greets lost and found alike...
a kiss on the cheek of southern hospitality
in rural Illinois
100 feet from the shoulder,
the tiny diner stands:
a splendid sight, like the gateway arch
of Saint Louis... farmers greet guests with a smile
as long as they are white, Catholic, and have at least three country
music stations
programmed for easy finger finding
in their made-in-America trucks
do not blink as you pass by;
you might miss the shattered promises and conservative propaganda
blowing like tumbleweed
over rose-colored dirt
