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When the Street Signs Melt

When the Street Signs Melt


I want to watch
the Rimrocks cry
during a heavy rain
that spews it’s tears
into the basements
of those who are dumb enough
to live underneath
while the Shop Vacs clog
and turn to mold.

I want the street signs
to melt
and the turkeys
to block all traffic
halting commerce
and progress
while that Mercedes Benz
and all Subaru Wagons
turn to dust
and blow away
in the wind.

I want Pygmy Owls
to steal the souls
of bad local comedians
and shit them out
on the heads of the police
and I want them to suffer
perpetual foot cramps
while they stub and break
pinky toes.

I fear depression
has wrote a blank check
for my soul
but I was too down
and exiled in loneliness to notice.
Now I await for anything to happen
and talk to the birds I meet
and drink the ordered drinks
and silently wish for love
that will never happen.

I want you to gamble on me
because the final parlay
will be worth it and sweet
and in the meantime
I’ll float around in the bars
looking for the best anodyne
while the sidewalks boil
and the parking meters freeze
while derelicts stagger and mumble
and you are elsewhere and difficult.


Ian Dundas
Ian A Dundas is a 4th generation Montanan who never inherited the family ranch. Instead, he knocked around and stopped writing for 17 years only to now surface in an attempt to regain some failed potential. If there is any. He has been forged by the land, the sudden changing weather, the cities, the small rural towns, and the bars. Ian is a 2003 graduate of Rocky Mountain College and currently works his dead end job in Billings, Montana where he lives in a small house with his dogs.

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