Wednesday Night, Henderson

By Christopher Caldwell

There's no place lonelier than Henderson, Nebraska
When you've only got a dollar in your pocket.
And the rustle, rustle rustle of the dry, dead corn
And the corn-fed eyes of the men in trucks
All seem to accuse you of nameless crimes.

The moon sits fat and white in the starless sky
While the wind sings of untold regrets.
Do the townies know of love and the ocean?
Or do they swallow sorrow along with the meatloaf in the cafe?
Ghosts in skins watch as you spread out your hopes like playing cards.

Christopher Caldwell is a twenty-year-old who resides in the Los Angeles area. Comments and flames can be sent to ccaldwel@oxy.edu

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