Now this is a special kind of nowhere.
Its midpoint even, a place equidistant
from North and South, somewhere
neither desert nor tundra.
The beige walk here, eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast
unless oatmeal is available, in which case
they have oatmeal after missionary sex
scheduled several months in advance.
Their housing authority allows no more than 21
garden gnomes per lawn, a 22nd must hide
in your attic, Ann Frank as written by
Walmart’s employee of the month.
Michael leans into Jonathon, his new neighbor,
says: “People used to have as many as they wanted,
then Beverly went all funny near the end.
Some folks need limits.” Jonathon nods.
Jonathon dreams of doggie style, threeways,
a garden-gnome-shaped house, hotter days,
cooler nights, or maybe, just once, eggs
over-fucking-easy and bacon, burnt.​
