Before the entrance with its plastic mesh in the threshold,
we duck and stomp through the dirt and quickrete
amid piles and piles of CRTs &VHS tapes & leather
belts branded on the spot, and an Asian behind the belt
booth reeks of cooking oil, smoking his tenth
handrolled cigarette by the ashtray's count. Morose and draped
women genuflect before wax Yankee Candle altars, begind
which I can imagine their Confederate flag, or the Bonnie Blue,
waving as it did before Sherman burned it all. We
eat chili dogs with Heinz & relish & sauerkraut
and drink flasked liquor from styrofoam cups,
a sea of people and gastric scents from both the kitchen
and imported, the cringe of hay and workboots & red clay,
moving without ceasing.
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