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48 Prairie Dog Town You want me to stir these things up? Larry in a too-tight flannel shirt plunges his cane tip into the shuddering cage filled with rattles like gravel on tin. The snakes rear and strike against the barricade. He stands back, arms crossed. There’s no room for me in your life. I tell you in the car somewhere between Kansas City and Denver. The long stretch fills with miles of wheat, dust devils flare on the road’s shoulder as we pass. Your eyes never flicker from the center line. Don’t miss the six-legged steer or the jackalope. In the yard, shabby pygmy goats rush us, clattering across bare dirt. A father poses his three daughters in front of a disheartened steer, its deformity exposed behind the blond pigtails. Don’t you have anything to say? Wind pushes dark, fast clouds across high sky. Hand-painted billboards for famous pie. Abandoned filling stations and houses. Johnny Cash singing about love and prison. ...

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