Corydon, 1846 - 1965

I see you’ve arrived to appraise the latitude
of our light box. Well, sir, we’ve dove-tailed

planks for want of nails. When the stagecoach
comes from Steamburg, we load the handles

from our factory. Grist, too. There’s Ms. Marsh
who meanders daily by the river, gathering cattails

and arbutus, thistles and lady slippers. She presents
her bittersweet willows to the Good Templars

and Odd Fellows, murmuring, Typical name
for an enamored rustic. And here’s Mr. Tome who feeds

the wolf-hunters at the Griffen Hotel. Myself? I look
after the river-ice and arrange the annual ox roast.

Come morn we’ll go down to Woodbeck Grove.
What, you see no urgency in our slip show? Your eyes

betray dam-lust, dear sir—already I believe
you’ll wager our township for fierce watershed.