Cadillacs of the 1950s
Glinting in the Cherokee
Sun, arranged in rows
A stabbing revelry
Americana, what we are
A memory spoke in Southern drawl
During a trot along
The Trail of Tears.
Colorful figures,
All around the mountain square,
Jangled in their meaningless
Headdress and fascist tribal flare.
She’s a beauty ain’t
She? asked a farmer
Of about 67 and
Three months.
I reckon to say she is,
Replied some onlooker,
Paid ten dollars
Just to see her.
On a streetcorner
Just down the hill:
Bronzed in black fishnets
Stood a mother, 17.