Monday, June 14, 2010

Pulp Poem of the Week

Way past nightfall I flicked the TV on
and sat in the squeaky rocker.
Some show played,
kids who drive Porsches to high school
and eat in sit-down restaurants on their own,
but there's this emptiness inside them, apparently,
bigger than the beach.
They were folks you'd like to meet sometime
and leave in a car trunk at the airport.
Daniel Woodrell
Tomato Red

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