You probably think this poem is about
Lisbon, Portugal, where women
dangle your imagination like
a necklace of sun-dried
currants. No,
Lisbon, Iowa, a town twenty-two
miles removed from the 21st
century, where I stopped
for coffee, flipped eggs
and a place to piss
on my way home
from god what a day;
a man ordered a plate
of Rice Krispie bars
and tea—shuffled
his wallet for ten minutes,
made me nervous
like he was on
Thorazine;
it was the last
time I visited
Lisbon.