Ritual at the Inn
An upward cadence and flickering eye—
down, up, bat, sigh, down.
The familiar droll behind their creamy faces
sounds just like the radio
and confidence, like a junkyard fly,
swirls and swirls, landing on stink.
Saliva hangs from bulldog’s jowls,
landing on pretty heaps of empty things.
I watch the scene nearby,
an old vestige of this crooked landscape,
And doubt my pedestal,
which leans ever to the left,
waiting to topple
from the weight of a fly.