21st Century Totems

Little dirt track that cuts away,
folds back like a geographical wrinkle,
just dry blown wheat swaying,
sun bleached, summer drunk,
upstanding citizens after the rain
but they snap like brittle chicken necks
between my fingers.

Tin-can roof and creaky veranda chair,
they string up the 21st century outside the door,
suspend it from wooden poles
tall as ancient totems, and
summon black feathered gods,
who sit high above on their electric thrones,
though their worship comes cheaper
than a dollar a minute.

Little dirt track that cuts away,
smooth it out like an earthly blemish,
just pour between the dotted lines,
sun glazed, summer skies,
furious abstractions of artistic endeavor,
impatient brush strokes of aquamarine blue.

Horse-grazed fields and tire swings,
they string up the 21st century outside the door,
distend the cables, neatly stitch in rows,
affix the metal effigy to steel and static,
while outside sheets languish and squirm,
turning on their wireframe gallows,
condemned traitors left to their fate.

Little dirt track that cuts away,
there's a road there now that hustles time,
sells it in miles and gas station signs.
The birds still gather to gossip in black
veiled swarms of old gods that descend,
mourners awaiting a sermon.