written to a prompt from
not far from where the James Boys
once holed up,
we found a bank,
emptier than they would have left it,
at the intersection of two wrinkled gray roads.
its neighbors were dead as it was:
a grocery, a filling station, a brick hotel
and there was a cemetery on the hill.
we rubbed two clean holes
below gold-lettered consonants
in the bank’s grime yellow window.
behind the tarnished tellers’ grates,
the steel cave vault was dark in the shadows.