Hobble Creek Review
| Thomas Hyland |
COUNTRY MUSIC
Late July. A sticky seam
of tar holds the world together
and gives its impression
of everything that passes.
After two days of rain,
though, the streets become rivers.
An unmoored boat rebounds by.
Somebody's deck festooned
with furniture
floats into the lake.
The governor tours,
stumping low-interest
loans and government
grants. People haul
their hard work to the curb
to be picked up with the trash.
Charon might've ferried you
for a piece of silver
to just such a forlorn shore.
A country song about this
is playing somewhere even now,
something somebody lonely
has hummed by heart
while stuck at a crossroads
redlight that just won't budge.
It's that moment in the song
when the lap steel starts to climb
and the rest of the band
reluctantly follows,
and suddenly you have a clear view
of the surrounding counties
from a small plane
circling submerged fields.
Then comes the descent
through air pockets and wind gusts.
And you're back in it,
your life, this particular devastation:
a doe bends down at the water's edge,
her neck arched, her forelegs
sunk, so she can sip
from the river that ruined everything.
VACATIONLAND
The spiny shells on the gift shop shelves;
the t-shirts splashed with sunsets and the names
of little towns with access to a beach;
the shot glasses painted with sayings like
I'm not opinionated, I'm jus' right;
the cheeseburger and the roadside motel;
the long line for the short attention span;
the highway sign; the highway sign;
the exit that you thought you'd never find;
the air-conditioned barbeque; the post-
card pelican; the plastic tom-a-hawk;
the realistic rubber snake; the man-
made lake with paddle boats; the sun-
set pink flamingoes on their matchstick legs.
Late July. A sticky seam
of tar holds the world together
and gives its impression
of everything that passes.
After two days of rain,
though, the streets become rivers.
An unmoored boat rebounds by.
Somebody's deck festooned
with furniture
floats into the lake.
The governor tours,
stumping low-interest
loans and government
grants. People haul
their hard work to the curb
to be picked up with the trash.
Charon might've ferried you
for a piece of silver
to just such a forlorn shore.
A country song about this
is playing somewhere even now,
something somebody lonely
has hummed by heart
while stuck at a crossroads
redlight that just won't budge.
It's that moment in the song
when the lap steel starts to climb
and the rest of the band
reluctantly follows,
and suddenly you have a clear view
of the surrounding counties
from a small plane
circling submerged fields.
Then comes the descent
through air pockets and wind gusts.
And you're back in it,
your life, this particular devastation:
a doe bends down at the water's edge,
her neck arched, her forelegs
sunk, so she can sip
from the river that ruined everything.
VACATIONLAND
The spiny shells on the gift shop shelves;
the t-shirts splashed with sunsets and the names
of little towns with access to a beach;
the shot glasses painted with sayings like
I'm not opinionated, I'm jus' right;
the cheeseburger and the roadside motel;
the long line for the short attention span;
the highway sign; the highway sign;
the exit that you thought you'd never find;
the air-conditioned barbeque; the post-
card pelican; the plastic tom-a-hawk;
the realistic rubber snake; the man-
made lake with paddle boats; the sun-
set pink flamingoes on their matchstick legs.
Thomas Hyland is an Assistant Professor at Lakeland Community College.
He graduated from Miami University with a Masters in English with a
concentration in Creative Writing where he served as a Poetry Co-editor of
Oxford Magazine. He has published poems in a number of journals, including
Flyway and Poetry Midwest.
He graduated from Miami University with a Masters in English with a
concentration in Creative Writing where he served as a Poetry Co-editor of
Oxford Magazine. He has published poems in a number of journals, including
Flyway and Poetry Midwest.
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