Shelbyville, City of Progress

though it sprouts slowly in the heartland,

the town is an island in an ocean of cornfields and soybeans

a cluster of two story businesses surrounded by suburbs

a couple of Hondas with shimmering rims and primer-painted doors approach

the red light

at this point, the term ‘revs’ could mean either revolutions or reverberations.

the light changes,

and each car adds another quarter mile to their twice-topped odometers

you might catch a whiff of melted rubber or wasted gasoline

two teenagers with striking mullets wait for a walk signal

one is wearing a ‘Slayer’ shirt, and his talent lies in getting

“so wasted last night, dude, you don’t even know…”

and the other one nods sleepily with glazed eyes

their stench is reminiscent of a poorly-maintained gas station bathroom mixed with that of a Grateful Dead concert

at the high school, a male student wanders by the new, state-of-the art football stadium,

clutching a ten-year-old sociology textbook

he waves at the popular red-headed cheerleader, close enough to breathe her perfume

she does not even look up

the name brand on her t-shirt clearly implies that

her clique does not click with his clique

a Sport Utility Vehicle chugs by, a medium-sized box-shaped object on its way

to hide inside a larger box-shaped object.

kids play in the backyard, faces smudged with dirt

when the sunlight fades, they gather around the television to worship

the gods of wrestling

back in town, a man sits on his porch sofa, springs exposed

he is wearing a stained white muscle shirt, which covers not muscles but gut

the loud shout emanates from a mouth with few teeth,

an urgent request for another Bud

and nobody has a problem with the bruises she mysteriously acquires

(c) 2003 Jordan Baugher