Smoke wraps around his head

like the fog that wraps around the grey haired tops

of the Shenandoah.

King of the Valley.

King of Old America.

He surveys the grand landscape of his domain

from the grease-stained seat

of the Chevy pick-up he’s had since he was eighteen.

King of Back Roads.

King of Old America.

His black angus bow their heads to the red plains

of the sun-scorched south,

their calves lying wet at their heels.

King of the Cattle.

King of Old America.

His hands are as worn

as the cracked and calloused roads

that wind through the cancerous town of Bedford, Virginia.

King of Ghost Towns.

King of Old America. 

Heaps of rusted metal

grow like tumors at every storefront,

in every abandoned tobacco shed. 

King of Decay.

King of Old America.

What thrives here are tattoo parlors, and mattress emporiums.

In-home hair salons, and high-school-drop-out lawn services.

Pawn shops, and thrift stores.

Methodist churches that slant at their frames,

and ten square foot grave yards protected by chicken-wire fencing. 

An eight-year-old campaign sign

welcomes him to his castle,

and on the rotting porch, his wife:

Queen of Nicotine.

She wears the sweet tea and waffle-house meals

heavy on her chin,

and spends her days asleep in a self-proclaimed hospice, 

but death never comes to Bedford.

Town Forgotten.

Town of Old America.