This is another poem about drought, called "Drought."
The approach to the dryness is from a little different angle
here.
Simply a series of fairly specific and rather exaggerated
images.
"Drought."
"Nobody wears clothes anymore, not
even the local virgin scarecrow.
The mannequins in all the storefronts
have dropped their drawers like so many hot potatoes.
One goat and three medium sized children have so far
disappeared down a split in the ground
behind the Champlin Station.
Between two upright posts, the length
of number nine wire whines like a Baptist prayer
in a depraved wind.
Ham and eggs for half price, fresh off the cement
grill in front of Rocky's Cafe.
For one thin dime, you can earn the privilege
of watching Roy Duncan start a fire with his fingers.
Boll weevils gather like flies wherever
Vernon Ryan elects to spit.
Even the preacher's mistress has given up
the show, her high heels arrested
in the pitch of the pavement, her lipstick running
like chokecherry down the cleft of her chin.
It's no use.
Hell has moved her headquarters into southeastern Nebraska.
Far into the night, the last of the dogs
keeps everyone in town awake with its decision not to bark."
[APPLAUSE]