All Things Being Equal
Nick Guarino
Amber waves of lethargy roll on
through miles of Nebraskan nothingness.
As a traveler, the country put me to sleep
but loving equality, God spices up the land—
lightning denies complacence.
The silence is painful: there’s no rain.
The storm is a cruel lover, making me beg
but not for long, the rain falls in a damaging wall.
Alone—we roll in our Dodge Icarus
Alone—every flash carries a perverse thrill—alone.
No local risks local danger.
Funnel clouds flirt with the solemn earth
kicking up cowboy dust.
We took shelter next to the skeleton of a porno hut,
A building struck down in the name of piety
but the sign remained—tall as a tower of blasphemy,
claimed by eminent domain despite
the apparent appeal of the surrounding nothingness.
In the morning I found cows
with mouthfuls of cud
growing as fast as they could—
I found cows and casualties of the storm,
trees that reached a little too high,
struck down in the name of equality.
Since storms are our only role models
the farmer’s scythe keeps an eye on the cattle.
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