Sunday afternoon in Buffalo, Texas about 4:30 PM, bus stop.
Four or five roads converge here going somewhere else.
And on the concrete apron of the Conoco station,
this boy all afternoon has practiced
squealing his new radials with the sound of a young giantess
repeatedly climaxing.
One carload of the converted dressed
for evening service parks on thin grass beside the highway.
Nothing to do, but watch us stumble thirsty
and disheveled down the bus steps.
The Buffalo flower shop is closed on its door.
The little paper clock is set for tomorrow.
But I will dream tonight of the wild Buffalo flower, old bear,
and shaggy.
Leaving town, we pass a yard made colorful
by red and yellow flower pots strung
between trees like lanterns left on
after some long and marvelous party.
Population 1242.