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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 in to 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.
