Daytona Paradiso
The neon signs of Florida are matched
By empty sunlight in her days. The worst,
Perhaps, is how the local roads have hatched
Those crummy little businesses accursed
With would be clever, come on names that churn
Your sunburned gut. Or maybe even worse
Is how the tackiness and blights return,
Return, return. They janglingly disperse
Their tastelessness for miles and miles relieved
Occasionally by shop fronts converted
To low-class churches where the whining, peeved
Text benders whinge words that they’ve perverted.
Before the asphalt there was history,
At least a past of swampy mystery.