In its heyday fueled on anything spent
(cottonseed hulls, husks, ratted twine, lint),
this fifty-foot volcano, rusted-tin
monument left up by a defunct gin,
stood simple sixty years as symbol, shape,
in its weedy, scrap-iron lot. Too late
the town got around to tearing it down,
every bright light ever lit there now gone,
reflecting: cream cone, witch’s tit, tepee.
History lesson: The Past, Exhibit A.
Bored sentry, whistling, ticking in its joints.