Nothing’s for Sale
Jennifer Denrow

We were only holding on,

...................................our arms tired and blistered from the cornfields.

It wasn’t always like that, tin skies and old raindrops,

...................................like rust or knowing when to close your eyes.

Breathe. Smoggy arguments through the fastening.

Yellow flowers across the feedlots. The shamble-men come,

...................................beards and sweatshirts, the morning’s

indifference. They are wire-thin and reckless. Truck-beds—worries.

..............................................................We’ve moved on,
..............................................................our minds entrap us.

The tears on your fist. Put them in buckets
and raise them skyward, closer to poles, closer to a flutter.

The slack of our shirts, who are we?

...................................Canestick and whispering, unsure about astronauts.

An old man backs into a parking space, his glasses
square and large, his arms swinging awkward and heavy
in his stiff-walk. A town of keychains and abuse—always
someone in leather.

Like satellite stations, like a lunch pass, we all sold something to get here.