Cardboard Whiskey Shack

There’s a broken-down box for paper plates
folded as a welcome mat
in front of the swinging door
with hand-written letters that read
in a black, Sharpie font.

The way the shack sits on the lawn,
swaying only slightly from the wind,
is as natural and stable
as trees in the distance.

With the corners carving Earth,
the edges fold into dirt,
sealed with a plaster of
stale whiskey
and sod.

This box houses the American Dream
fixed in form and robbed of content,
content and drunk in the afternoon
to abandon civilization.

The Sperry shoes prod open the door
poking skyward towards the setting sun
as the crux of the body disappears inside.

And though the shack is strong and stable
in the verdure of the field,
the walls bow as the wind
fills the lungs of the intellectual;

intoxicated as she dreams
and exhales.


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