Alan Catlin




                         after Shelby Lee Adams


They look like a new

age American Gothic

posed before their life

transforming modern

appliance for farm &

home; the family satellite

dish—she scowling—dressed

in her going to town

pressed black and white

polka dot dress—scrawny

arms liver/sun spotted

whittled down to sinew—

bone and flesh by years

of hard working fields—

home—garden—child rearing—

while he holds the empty

nest replacement—a  miniature

collie—his lined—pinched

perpetually sour face

shaded by Agway store

cap & dark glasses—new

dungarees rolled into huge

cuffs for trapping dust—lint—

dropped nickels—his never

stepped in shit shoes polished

for the special occasion of

a snap—his fresh from a

package Fruit of the Loom

t-shirt still creased on this

late Fall afternoon you can

almost feel the transmissions—

the multiplicity of channels

cycling through the early morning

hours—broadcasting pulled in

from far away—all the silent

emanations silently being absorbed.

Copyright © 2003 Alan Catlin.  All Rights Reserved.

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