I once had faith in this message hand-lettered
on the side of a vacant building.
Now I put my money on the wrecking ball.
Since the four-lane opened a half mile
off the strip, only Bubba Suds Laundry
and Free Junque — an antique shop — remain.
No music but the blues for Shaggy.
With no prep work and no mouths to feed,
Shaggy could be anywhere. He could be
the reckless pilot of this duster that dives
with a roar before rising to answer its shadow.
He could be cuffed to the chain gang
that picks the highway for its crop of trash,
or living at the motel between jobs.
You know the type. No money for food,
but able to scrounge change for a Lotto ticket,
figuring one day he'll collect a windfall
of unlikely numbers. For now, it's hard luck
in the land of the lone gas station
that sells hot wings and shotgun shells.
Land of the blind man with a harmonica
for a mouth. He breathes the blues, I'm telling you.
Breathes the blues like he's witness to what
pains us most. If he sent a postcard, the print
would start out square and get smaller, a diagram
of trumpet sound, the volume down.