Indiana Problem

The babysitter came with a suitcase

full of crap we liked: old clothes for

dress-up, tattered naked Barbies

with hair tangled and limbs scratched

by some unknown girl, a stethoscope,

gaudy grandma jewelry. On those nights

we ate TV dinners: an important part

of my identity was loving steak, and

it was true that I even loved the spongy

metallic brown rectangle resting

in the largest square of the tray. I claimed

that my favorite steak was at The Camelot

in Odebolt, Iowa where I would proudly

eat the entire prime rib on its bed of soggy

toast before taking my mini ice cream

cone into the bar. There I would spend

a few minutes alone in the reddish light

looking at the full suit of armor, surrounded

by drunks I’m sure I’d recognize in daylight.

For some reason steak seemed a sign

to everyone that I could take care of myself:

clearly the carnivore would be ok. Sometimes

when I waited for my parents to get home

as I lay in bed, I thought about the one time

we rode to The Camelot in Milton’s camper,

the three of us in the bed above the cockpit, 

the adventure of darkness awaiting us as 

the cornfields rushed on either side.