Omaha , Between 10th and 13th on Howard

Smiles and salutations to strangers on the street

and plastic sleeves of convention tags glinting in the sun.

Stains on grey, seventies carpets from Pepsi or jizz or vomit. Or worse.

Few cars zip the four-lane boulevards

radiant with new-normal heat and lined

with stories of family farms lost to banks or

the Hundred Year Flood,

twice now in the last ten,

but there’s no global warming here

nor Thanksgiving tables torn asunder

by too many dissenting voices.

-

Indifferent listless service, broken equipment

dirt from the floor making my feet dingy

tattered curtains framing swimming pool-sized ac units cranking without mercy,

the white noise of keeping cool

corporate titans housed in ugly bunkers.

-

Sticky door handles open to sugar emporiums, the aisles roamed by vanilla corpulence stuffed into too-short shorts and sweaty tees

ogling Warren Buffett’s bobbling head.