Classic Poem

She's come out of the Yellow, a Mountie
on a fat Duroc. And when she wrote,
on a peony named Wild Flower,
a williwaw by her sighed.
She's a susurrous clod. Nebraska's nigh.

Oh, they say she dyed her wig whiter
when there came that killing frisk.
And the crony she named “Welfare
Check,” he busted down the bathroom stall!
(In his lizard she'd grown lost.) She ran—

collying wildfowl; culling vilifiers;
clawing wild fur…











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 186, no. 4, July/August 2005. Used with permission.