The aroma of timely Catholic churches cannot dissipate
as it appears within one block of another,
striking you each time its existence is almost forgotten.
In this town there are minimal true buildings.
A multi-business complex exists once every few miles
where a couple tie wearers keyboard smash,
nail technicians lavishly paint,
and doctors measure heartbeats.
There is only one of each profession here,
because there is only one type of person here.
 
The pure, frail wind blows us where we must go,
as if marionettes living in a thick, plexiglass orb
halting us from progression past the mundane.
Here, modernism is death—
death of culture, tradition, and fear.
 
I’ve asked why.
I’ve asked the tie wearers, nail technicians, and doctors.
I’ve asked enough to receive all answers more than twice.
I’ve asked until I’ve become suffocated with the smell on every step,
past every corner, bouncing about the insides of this fishbowl,
suffocating me from the inside.  
 
I’ve asked but
“Women raised in modern barns house foolish women”
is the only answer I will ever receive.