Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
from “A Supermarket in California”, by Allen Ginsberg
Each store sign sold,
Pressed hands for work, go home.”
It’s friday after five
with no time clocked.
As cars, locked and parked,
mustered up the fuel to climb their drives;
so did their welcomed men,
so did their welcomed wives.
At the money game, they are beaten without luck:
the archives of industry,
the fragments of folklore.
The redundant warehouse or grocery store
(depression born, laboriously)
sat still so long
that their steel and vinyl sulked.
The factory drove me to the field,
as dead as town.
Cornhusk’s yellow root of celery stalk
grows from the ground
they never plowed all year.
November 27, 2010