Nebraska 45: from the beginning of ‘The Beautiful American Poem’ by Josh Bell

Some slob tracked burning styrofoam across the dear sky’s parlor
and Airstream trailers run silver and mindless across 80
toward Nebraska like minnows down a drainpipe.
If all this, our stalled-on-the-shoulder, floorboard love,
amounts to more than heat-waves or jerky strips,
I’ll quit talking about the architecture of Quik Trips
and I’ll plan a moon pie in the median and when we return
next May to see its wet, alien stalks,
I’ll wonder at the days we’ve seen, Jesus, baby, the days that we have seen.

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