Tourist Slag

There in the drench, yellow fin bobbing helplessly
the manicured chaos, the deadly child’s play
an adventure corralled, hemmed in by wanderers
that are not lost — the Appalachian wind sprayed
past turbines and cement breaches, the prophetic urge
borne along on aluminum buses, the chassis bent
wheels rotten, sunk into the memory of a flood
dry dusty field the five o’clock scratch of a soldier;
there in a chemical closet, a prayer was raised
as icons were slipped into their noxious baths;
bright smiles and blurred paddles were cast offs
the slag of tourist trappings,
but some could be sold.