Honeyfield Oates

When Honeyfield Oates,

America’s favorite poet,

was born, it was 106

in the shade. The weeds

withered except where

the air conditioners dripped

from their window brackets.

The air smelled of dust,

and many people

were afraid of the end

of the world, which,

by the way, was not

brought on solely by the birth

of Honeyfield Oates.