(Mama Roux)

At the corner store
the protestant santeria
of the lottery logos--

fake foxing
against a gold rush font,
the leprechaun's derby

overflows--
a yellow cord
marks off the liquor store

after eleven,
outside (courtesy of
the smoke from Burns Bog)

the moon trails
a gambler's beard,
a kettle of coins

rattles inside the aqua
tunnel under highway one
illuminates the figure eight

I inscribed on a whim
on the slope outside
the fire station--

or it could be
the "pimpjuice" sticker
the pepsico rep

slapped near the entrance
or the icecube with wings
and a Grecian profile

loyal to the old regime
where the word "cold"
came wreathed in beads of sweat

and every word
unashamedly itself,
like those farmers

in Emerson
who planted
themselves last

pulling the earth
over themselves
like an old quilt.