The Post Office was last to go
when the last whore refused her mail,
the town and her legend unmade.
When the shallow oilfield played out,
bankers and clerks gazed at the clock
fixed above the rail station arch.
Cholera, sandstone grave markers.
Love was wasted on bitterness,
the price paid for too long a wait.
About the author
Jeffrey Alfier lives in Tucson, Arizona. His recent and forthcoming publication credits include New Madrid, Rattle, and Silk Road. He is co-editor of the…Read the full bio
Issue 07 · November 2009
Table of contents
- From the editors
- This Map
- South Africa
- My Friends, the Bees
- Properties of Place
- A Song for Departures
- Senora Filo’s Washing Machine
- The Lean Season
- Two poems by MaryAnn Franta Moenck
- Allensworth, California
- At a Poetry Reading in the Swiss Alps, Joachim Sartorius Speaks of Tunis
- Any Ghost Town West of Omaha
- Touring Shenandoah with My Husband
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes