Here in the Midwest, we don’t have streets.
No, we have mighty stalks of corn,
the kind that mangly teens detassel for a meager
four-fifty an hour. Here in the Midwest,

everybody has an ear of corn. You overhear
he-said-she-saids, she-said-he-saids,
of whatchamacallits and thingamajigs,
all sorts of naughty stuff. Conversations like:

Real hot day we’re having, doncha think?
Ope, sorry spurt, the rain’s coming down now.
The scotcharoos and puppy chow better wait
with the creamed corn, the real cream of the crop.

Here in the Midwest, you feel watched.
The soaring hawk eyes the stormy weather,
the threat of inland cyclone, a derecho.
You think I owe ya one? Iowa nothing.