POEM | Mike Smith
Branson, Missouri The mountains weren’t enough, so here’s to the high season and the red corps of engineers. Here’s to the neon godliness of enterprising souls who guessed you might willingly cede your privation to the indigenous few who’d cash your checks in full costume and swipe your cards. What changes hands is gold they never found here in this state of being nowhere near a spot you’d care to be. They made it worth your while. They dammed the river and gave you Freon luxury in an authentic shack. Old jokes, old jokes hop and sing out on seventeen scuffed stages where B-Listers with blisters look for no place like home. Check your map: The line starts here.
Raleigh Review | 11
