Patriot Generator Poem

The upskirts at the end of Rasmussen St.,

flaring at all corners,

scouring the asphalt for an outlet or extra cord

between the feet and several thumbs of a file of mourners.

They remembered everything, even the fog,

and every episode of Sesame Street was burned on their retinas.

The rest of their wardrobe was donated first thing.

I caved in and got the Patriot Generator

in a moment of peak weakness.

I wonder if it could handle a full chandelier or a flood light

to help your fingernails on the curb sorting through a bird’s nest.

They remembered the fog just like ants in a circle, extremely rare.