The Shoppes at Grand Prairie and Other Syllogisms

Twelve thousand years ago, a glacier taller than Sears Tower
swept right by here, leveling the ground, leveling everything,
in its path. A few thousand more and the hunters
and gatherers began their hunting and gathering. Then,
the French starved the Indians at Starved Rock, before Reagan,
before Monsanto screwed the small farmers and the Mall
screwed Main St. but that’s what it is now, a mall. Shoppes,
actually, but it’s a good place to score weed with your wrinkle-free
chinos. And if you hop on I-74 you can be back in Morton
in time to get high on the floor in Max’s garage where
everything was throwback. Old Coke ads and a Hi-Fi
and this depressing Turner print, The Shipwreck. Sure,
he was a shitty husband, but even Turner taught a class
on perspective. If A, then B, you’ve always needed to believe.
Then the Pink Floyd, then you’re puking on the Astroturf
and all over your new pants. And you have to sing
in the praise band tomorrow, so you drive out to Grand Prairie
but they closed the Bergner’s, that vaulted dome of clearance.
The next morning, you try club soda on the stains. Sing
every song to a messiah who will wash away your sins.