Truth buried shallow
in a lost poem
. . . born in a speed trap city
. . . grew up in a one-horse town.
All he knew was hasty paper.
It blew in the agile wind like thrown litter on a lay of callous highway
near an empty drive-in movie screen
that could be seen from an open window facing west
looking sheepishly out onto a back porch
Nixon Bennington was from there
. . . where everyone moves away eventually.
He would leave unfinished poems at an intersection
. . . where no mail carrier passed.
All he knew was hasty paper.
Truth, shallow, buried in a poem.
It blew in the wind like litter across a lay of callous highway