They said trees and railroads willy nilly, houses and fine markets.
They said a clean, central well like in fairy tales, in pictures
and notices with exclamations, that’s exactly what. But my lil’ girl
in her white Sunday best stood there on the dirt
saying, Papa I don’t see nothin’ like trees,
all’s I see is flat. And at first

I fixed my eyes way off, past the wooden stakes
pushing up like shoots, past the flies and flags flapping in the wind. All of us
right off that train just as mad as piss ants fuming and buzzing, and I

soon enough came to thank the good Lord for the bank that’d
said yes to me, for that hundred dollars clutched tight at the pit of my shoe.