(found poem–pg. 21 of Eric Schlosser’sFast Food Nation)
The town out on the edge nicknamed “Citrus Smokestacks”
had just sixty inhabitants. It was the last stop.
Tourists and migrants jammed cheap motels.
A local motorcycle club, “Airborne Angels,”
celebrated families and small children and Marlon Brando.
They supplied a new yin and yang. The Hunter
wrote of shoplifting culture. His timing was perfect.
The first—the same—“America.”