Someone sticks a pin into a map and a gas station appears.
A convenience store is soon penciled in at the crossroads.
One or two monopoly houses are trucked in, their cinder block props
exposed like men without pants, their dull small windows
hung with curtains unfit to frame the picture in the window.
An afterthought of trees cannot mask the brutal angles
of a shopping center that appears one morning at the edge of town.
Time will not blend these products of human impatience
into an indifferent landscape; time will shred the inconsequential
boxes as if they had been decals pasted to the sky, and its partner wind,
will suck the fragments over the badlands, until a fence or a telephone pole
traps their flight. Bits of painted color will mark a failed extension
of western civilization.