Painting Biddle City

Biddle City was painted by no one, but I will paint it now.

First, I will use my flat, long-haired brush, spread gray-blue paint evenly over the canvas.

Then, I will capture the art deco building by the capitol, the free-standing barber shop.

With its Red Cedar River full of coruscating water and its Old Town Mexican bakery, popcorn shop on Turner.

With the bar—I’ve forgotten its name—on the river, golden lights, high ceilings, the community theater actor drinking her vodka water through a paper straw.

And the ring-necked doves, I will paint them, extending their wings to glide around the bell tower of St. Mary’s Cathedral.

With the state representative tightening his tie after a pretzel bun burger on Michigan Ave.

With the folk singer at Gone Wired plucking her strings with her callused fingers.

And everyone is a little bit drunk on the streets of Biddle City, even the forlorn mechanic who lifts his grease-stained hair out of his eyes with his forearm.

I will paint them all, the jobless man, his lovesick face, at the bus stop, the weary college student entering the well-lit diner, the recently-killed deer, murdered by a car, resting her nose on the curb.