Rural Rot (a trip home)

their arms hang like scrap-wood
piling in the parking-lot of
Walmart, next to the closed Ponderosa,
striking their flinty fingernails
against their veins,
searching for the next spark

and they stand on their porches, with
bulging eyes and sallow cheeks,
pulling back the chains of
shivering pit-bulls
as the wind tugs the blue patches
on every roof
towards the sky.