Remember, We’re in the Duck Lot

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Sunday after Church the parking lot fills

and people drive circles to save those 50 steps

to the mall entrance.

When peasants gathered Sundays around Notre Dame

it might’ve been like this–what they found

is what we get: Madonnas and images of a heaven

where everything’s well-lit–and we believe

because fluorescent tubes erase our shadows

and our doubt.

Nothing’s old here, except retirees, and

they’ve got their walking shoes on,

tiny weights in their hands. They battle

decay in this temple of the shiny.

Some sit around fountains asking each other,

“Can you believe this?”

Once in Bozeman’s mall I saw a sculpture

made of Coke and Diet Coke cans. You would’ve

recognized the Air Force logo, but a nearby sign

explained, teenaged kids’d built it

in their church’s basement because

they’d given up drugs and had nothing else to do.

If I squinted, I could just about make out

the Christ ready to blast a smuggler’s Cessna

to bits over the Gulf of Mexico.

I chug the preferred orange froth.

Everything here seems to be a miniskirt.

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