It is near nowhere.
The marquee declares,
Line Dancing Mondays,
Tuesdays Kung-Fu.
I can see the bodies
moving through the little
community center in the hills,
practicing two forms
of self-defense, one
against assailants mostly
dreamed, you would imagine,
the other for the real
intruder, loneliness,
waving through the cornfields,
pulsing in the fingertips
of a weathered man
who is straightening his bolo tie
in the mirror, slowly
slipping into only
slightly muddy boots.