Lamoni, Iowa
The factory siren tells workers time to go home
tells them the evening has begun.
When living with the tall man
whom I didn't love, I would wander
the streets, dreaming of Italy.
Trekking the handful of avenues
with him, he would say look there
between pink cobblestones,
there's manure like mortar.
The sweet smell of it Wednesday nights,
the night before auction,
when the misery of cows greets me
heading home through town.
Lake quiets, tired of my lies.
When will I tell truths again?
The siren. My love is home.
Nights, we stay in and X the days.
