Post-high school, a ghost appears while you’re drowning your Jesus freak image in banana schnapps, still wearing that dipshit frycook uniform, mustard drunk, onion skunked. His old soft chains sloughing fecund for mesquite roots at the edge of a pasture. Here haunts he over the warped and beaten steel of an ancient cattleguard of braces, faces, and scurfy blooms. Eventual ruins when some ugly future looms a roll cloud over this place & the last to the ship are too late.

cowtown vowels
the word lacked
pronounced liked

Seth Copeland