And all 500,000 citizens of Wichita
tried to get a piece of your beautiful face,
drooling on themselves in the Methodist parking lots.
Throw your shoes in the Arkansas and watch them get erased.
Make calls at the business school.
"Is there no community college in your county?"
They branded themselves with an ikon and an effigy,
and marked a fertile swath, a green ellipse,
an occidental notebook, an accidental mallergy.
You're sleeping now in the grain,
or the basement of the ECC,
spilling drugs on your pre-med clothes.
"Is there no grain alcohol available in cabinets?"
I'd go in, but I'm scared and the museum got closed.
So instead I took a bus to the mountains and the labyrinths.
Home.
A quarter million children in the downtown of Wichita,
playing in their suits on the fountains and the grates,
spraying water at the girl with the flute and the mandolin.
Red skin.
Golden tone.
Sunflower state.