By Peter Neil Carroll
I dream from one absence to another—Pablo Neruda
Perry, Iowa, a dot on the map, struggles to survive,
its murals honor those earnest
small-town fixtures, lived before they died.
Charles Joy, “Such, such were the joys”
At town’s edge, cornfields crawl to the last
ramshackle shacks, open horizons swerve
full circle, from planet’s rim to starry abyss.
Fred Malick, Postman, walked 21 miles a day.
In liminal light, flatlands crackle in unbroken
wind before tense settlers chose sycamore
to shadow the bare sun, hug icy-white nights.
Virginia Green, “My favorite hobby is people.”
Early spring, low hills still shine lime green,
earth mineral-rich black, unnatured, Big Ag
grows on Big Gov cash, wind all-electric.
“Have you taken your disposition pill today?”
Horace Lewis, Religious leader
Two billboards corrupt the view—each targets
women (Varicose Veins) (The Choice that Kills).
What’s the point? No one is here to read them.
Bette Mae Harris, Dancer, “Talk of the Town”
As river floods or drought push folks from the land
onto city lots, the merchants plot, install red-brick shops,
a grand hotel, churches, schools, the Carnegie shelves.
John Turner, Teacher “He made me want to learn”
Gone, the family farm. Gone the farmer, his wife also
gone. Even the black night, silence of stars, killed
by cherry-red lights blossomed on whining windmills.
Cornelia Bulkley, “They always pick on me.”
Peter Neil Carroll has written poetry about midwestern towns in several collections, most recently in This Land, These People, the 50 States (2022) which won the Prize Americana from the Institute for the Study of Popular Culture.
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