in this town, you don’t buy new
things before October, not until after
the back-to-school clothing has gone on sale.
you only shower twice a week, only go to school
when you have to: when you can’t find a dollar
in your mother’s purse to spend at the arcade.
you go to parties where the sweating necks
of beer bottles stumble through corn fields.
a handle of cheap vodka, a lip swollen with chew.
here, you don’t go to college.
at home, your father speaks only to the wallpaper,
tells it what debt feels like soaked in bourbon.
you tack pictures of naked women
and 12-point bucks above your pillow.
you dream of floods.
– Sierra DeMulder