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Fish fry in Benoit.
Joyce brings a hundred dollars
in cod and beer
almost right to your mouth
and you wonder if it’s
just too easy
to live in a small town.
to shrink your world down
to the size of the road between this bar
and that gas station,
(or even smaller in winter,
but) small enough for
isolation to make an excuse
for ignorance in any season,
because it’s hard to be critical
when you’re full and warm
walking down 118.
when there’s meat in the smoker in the garage,
and life is equal parts corn and stars-in-the-sky
and anyway
everyone is so polite.
and anyway
there’s hay to make
and cows to milk
and the cats have been getting
into the dumpster
and that’s a straight wind
blowing across those fields
and there’s roof to fix
and a spaghetti feed on Wednesday
and anyway,
everyone
is so
polite.
