filled the behemoth cooler on the fresh
concrete slab next to the burn barrel—coin slot,
crank, stenciled sign extolling price & quality,
chrome receptacle that cradled each boughten
waxed cylinder inside which two dozen
night crawlers shone in peaty dark.

Imagine the proprietor pulling up in the rare,
crisp dusk of a summer day spent rolling
past the first split-levels on their beveled plots
then veering southeast to the lighthouse,
the concrete elephant & the Palace Depression
miraculously not crumbing into its constituent

glass shards, marbles & Progresso soup cans
then north for ice cream, the family plump
& quiet in the lull of rumbly wheels paid for
in part by the slick worms gone forth now
to die on hooks piercing the lower lips of crappies
& bass & wizened pike with those razor teeth.

Imagine filling your pockets with coins,
your neon name buzzing overhead, the goods
beyond the plate glass mere shadows, a semi
banging past behind you, kids clapping
as they run inside the bungalow whose every
corner-cut flaw you could fix if you just

had the time, wife already running the first
bath as you let the screen door slap shut,