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.
