The Greater Beauties Poem by Robert Rorabeck

New remedy of your brushworks over the soft
Cheeks of a tourist town
Where everyone lives in a cabin and keeps postcards
Of wolves:
And chimneys smoke to the crowns of conifers—
And Indians keep a casino—
There is a thrift bookstore, and a movie theatre—
And cypress up the road—
It is the town made of the prettiest illusions of white
Men, and my muse lives far away from here:
But it is a soft place of wimpled justice—None of the dogs
Have fleas, but her circus never comes to town—
And the airport is too obscure for the greater beauties
To ever touch the ground