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