Western Summer

Rebecca Parson

BPR 39 | 2012


On a statue of Ronald McDonald
or a fairground Porta-Potty
or subway tunnels ribald
with drawings, cheeky scrawls
answer life's questions: ought we
to pray, eat meat, be naughty?
Among the know-it-alls,
I'd, too, believe in stonewalled
creeds where virtue sprawls
on its bank of the metaphysical divide.
By highways, I see a Sasquatch,
buy chunks of Trinitite,
and picture the nuclear gotch-
ya in bunkered Gemütlichkeit.
Past all that debauch,
the easy faith, the thing-
in-itself — in desert light —
that's where I'll stop moving.
Where questions can be king.