ROADSIDE ATTRACTION
The cougar’s pacing.
I want to shave.
I need to comb my hair.
This isn’t easy.
Take my tattooed gut for example.
No amount of staying sober
can cure me of this wrinkled overhang
as I toss meat to the gators.
I’m an old engine.
I sputter more than I purr.
That beauty from the past,
my wife,
knows her limits –
the ticket booth
and the fan that wards off the heat.
And if it wasn’t for snakes in glass cases,
hissing African cockroaches,
what would we be?
Nomads like these peacocks.
Or just old donkeys,
in our stall,
praying no brat kid
has the money for a ride.
At least, we charge
for what we are.
And we provide a service
for travelers far from the new highway.
The cougar’s still pacing.
I’m feeding gators.
The wife’s waving her fan.
Drop in any time.
The world’s running out of places
that you have to see for yourself.
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