The creek is gone, bulldozed in,
but because it's a hundred every day
(more in the Wal-Mart parking lot)
and because this sunbelt town is the all-
you-care-to-eat capital of the world,
we're walking where it's cool, past
the food court's corn dog smells,
between the Scylla and Charybdis
of Waldenbooks and the Full Gospel Bookstore,
down to Radio Shack and the buxom amputees
of Victoria's Secret. We count cowboy boots,
fat Nintendo kids in line at the Cineplex,
high-haired ex-beauty queens trailing clouds
of Chanel and hairspray. Security, in her
mounty cap, nods beneath the single skylight
like a plant by a river where a salesgirl dreams
she poles her sampan of imitation jewels.