Dixie Plate

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Dixie Plate 


The Tibetan Buddhist monk bows 

his weight against the levers of a yellow 

Cub Cadet outside the temple plopped off

Georgia 27, that asphalt bayonet 

skewered through the Chickamauga Battlefield 

and a potluck of Baptist, tinfoil towns. 


Fall, and late September sun glints

off the sweat of his bronzed head

as the draped sleeves of his blood-red robes 

scoop the breeze that swirls beneath 

his twelve foot golden god 

staring down the ribboned flag

of the neighbor's Rebel one.


The air is orange with incense

of fresh-cut grass, low 

Om of motor, mower circling 

like a mantra. There is a pattern to it

all, but the lines are indiscernible from here.


We get a disposable plate 

and one trip through the line: 

the flavors are bound 

to rise and spill the binds. 

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