The Deception
In the archeology of false slides
paper layers of hand-colored visions restored
our postcard lives
where sleek fat-bellied roadsters
take us on cemetery picnics
and swollen men crack the ice with scottish malt
for friday fish frys.
A blaze in a driveway signals the clans
who release canned humor and pot flashes
in red white and blue shades
makes you think of vaudeville and Cagney dancing
with casseroles.
Here your church bus has arrived
dispatching a dimestore guitar,
coppertone tans
and lascivious glances.
Is that you dressed for the entry hall?
In your over the shoulder glance
I might have discerned the plan
to push our house over the precipice
and escape on a cloven daffodil.
J. R. Salling
