Some drunk upends the telephone pole and our only

transformer blows, so free fireworks for the kiddos.

This town has seen its share of youngsters stranded

on the side of a milk carton, pinned under the rubber

teeth of a tractor wheel. This town invented the crucifix—

white as a ghost on the side of the highway—the small

herd of them huddled before and after the railroad tracks.

This town knows most potluck dinners come with a side

of condolences, silent prayers. This town imagines itself

in god’s crosshairs without ever asking Why me? without

ever saying Don’t shoot.