Warholing the Leper

Whenever I glimpsed the woman's legs I thought about Nebraska. How endless Interstate 80 had beaten Warhol to the pop. Her legs weren't green bean bulgy, snake sly or string taut. Instead, like the countryside from a car, she strobed evenly when walking, mummied under her t.p. wrap. I'd always palm her a thick coin for leaving Campbell's chasing near a bankrupt gas station, stranded as the puss that bubbled and styled her limbs, a black cloud growing ever closer in the rearview.

appeared in Caketrain

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