An Invocation from the Hot Noon of Central Ohio

Off the interstate for gas in Marion, Ohio,
Another town whose business district runs
These days to missions, adult films, and thrifts,
I watch the old creep out toward afternoon
To tend the hollyhocks that tilt beside garages
Or budge their walkers down the buckled walks
With bags of vegetables. Checking belts,
The attendant tells of a farmer south of town,
Foreclosed, who last night set his house ablaze
With wife and son locked in. Jesus, he says,
Wiping clean his hands, and I, with shaking head,
Agree. That single oath stands in the heat
That silvers from the pumps and tire racks for all
That we, as strangers, cannot say, about
The backlot clutch of banks and government,
Or of the way that madness, without motive,
Creeps toward us with a music as singular
And strange as a glass harmonica’s. I pay
The man, decline my stamps, and nose the car
Once more past Cal’s Roast Beef and Burger Chef.
All day, between top-forty songs, I hear
His half-hoarse voice rise in the humid air,
Repeating that one word until it seems,
By turns, a muttered curse or stammered prayer.