Country Music
an online journal of poetry
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Dustin Luke Nelson




The Finished Product


The finished product is a wasteland.
Like a band of nineteenth-century traveling
actors, we’ve packed up this show.
The dress shoes wrapped in wax
paper, packed in boxes and stacked
in the back of this dusty wagon.
It’s a parking ticket,
an opinion wrapping choice
cuts of meat. $13.99/lb.
The one we performed
for wig-wearing patriarchs
and children with juice-stained
lips, it’s not any
good. Slipped
a fiver for our effort, or not, it happened.
The next stop will be more
of the same. Billowing silk
or whatever the fuck. I forget.
The next stop will be more
of the same.
Even though we don’t know
where that will be,
we know what we will perform.



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