Classic Poem

A field of wheat, a paddock of
stubble, the chafed dust-cloud staggers
the pick-up at distance, the Rock
of Ages rises over Plainville: pop:
dead serious. No hermits, only
the bowing pumps facing west for oil.
Family photos hang easy next to
the semiautomatic in each clapboard.
The Long Horn Saloon boasts the
one rule: NO SPITTING. NO STRANGERS.
The hard hats passed round every
Sunday and the big fists knuckle under
prayer & flag real righteous like.