Daniel Sumrall
A White Suit in Memphis

To stand in a place
quite dead, admire it
for its loss. . .
you've fallen into
forgetting what
you're doing mute
while placing fingertips
on merchandise.

Bullets are just
as strong as anything
you could recommend
with hands at bay.
Near the river there
is always some sort
of abandoned road,
littered and chapped,
and the scent of green,
the stench of life.

Beneath the dumb neon
sag of the same bored,
earnest chords the city
strikes a note of wanting;
everyone here is a guitar,
a love they've left behind,
a story they'll sing
to anyone at any given time.

When I left I left
wearing white to blind
the southern heat, hung
from the dash St. Christopher,
and I wore black once
on the road because
there is no way up a river.