the fields get burned
on the short days, the ones
with forty degrees of dank
and eight hours of stone gray light
hate speak and gut knives,
free shipping with rewards
divorces, doritos and double wides,
a sign thumb-tacked to the bulletin board
at the mini mart, now hiring:
new century correctional facility, inc.
good salary and benefits
down in the corner of the board
on the back of a motel six postcard:
replica telecaster guitar, $80.
white body, fair condition, plays good
so brandon borrowed forty bucks
from jimmy and bought it
covered the windows in the shed
with cardboard and started trying
to do zeppelin. he found the notes ok,
although with no panache,
filled in the gaps with his own.
alison liked to listen, made up songs
sung so quietly no one
but the cat could hear.
their mom was too wasted to care
so when they were seventeen
and sixteen, and alison
was writing songs,
they hit the road.
busking outside malls
in santa clarita and riverside,
anaheim, till they got
busted by the mall cops,
bailed by the daughter of a former
south vietnamese general.
she owned a bar
and thought that maybe
brandon and alison might appeal
to the kids who'd grown up bored
in the shadow of disneyland.
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