I was an auctioneering champion
peppering my chants with Old Testament chestnuts
and patent nonsense,
my tongue preaching commerce
through its raw, assonant mathematics
as a hundred rich Texans
hunched breathless in the bleachers.
Deep inside the heart of agriculture,
there was a semaphore.
It took the form of slight nods,
quickly scratched chins.
The auction became a living thing,
a rhythmic ghost raised high
upon its quiet bidding.
What love I had
for whoever placed telephone poles
along our nation’s highways!
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