The Desolate Places

I.
Sole lox lunchbox
Bite full o’ soul
Tar by the shoreline
Bisected by sandbank
Oil derricks ablaze
Gas flames in the ozone grey

II.
Stamp your heel in the sand
The tar ball forms a toothy edge
Blasted by seagulls drunk
On gas fumes thicken
the horizon line stitched by a tanker
To sky and sea
A uniform wash of concrete
At the end of sight

III.
Site specific
And septic like the weak
The week you crushed black ants
And drooped them into the Pre-K
Pea soup and followed with lead
Flakes shingling off the window
Sills silly and smeared black
And white and black
Back to Mighty Mouse blaring
In the desolate spaces

“No one should go into debt to study creative writing. It’s simply not worth it. Do not think of it as an investment in yourself that you’ll be able to recoup later on. This is not medical school.”

— Ann Patchett