In the general store north
Of Toronto, Kansas, I bought
Handmade postcards from
A local artist, a rusted Ford
In a field of weeds, rooster,
Meadows of sunflowers.
The dusty baggie held
Five cards. It is hard to find
Postcards anymore. Gone
With them are letters
And notes and notebooks
Full of notes and notes on
Lined paper or stationery.
I love that the girl
Wrote our hamburger order
On a white paper bag.
I love that map
of Mexico my grandparents
Used in 1968, the cigar burns
In the Pacific Ocean,
The circled towns.
What I smell and I feel
Remain. The fragile
Is not so. No, it is not so.
–Shaun Perkins
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 