![Old Hills](https://i0.wp.com/ascottbuch.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/WP19.jpg?resize=296%2C394&ssl=1)
Twenties
Ms. Columbia spins
her webby narrative
like a corrupted Athenian
princess,
Her cotton strands
of luxuriant fashion;
Her glossy advert
paper folds
are perfume smelling.
Her bottom is round
looking perfect
from every angle,
Ever only looked at
through this Capital
lens
Disseminated like a
perverse fractal
Rocks the pen
that strips,
Dictating how the
mosses
pile up.
Corroded copper idol;
can’t I eat you,
Overthrow your Andrew
Jackson grease
And erect a Harriet
Tubman?
Chillicothe
A face full of shadow crawling upwards
On the road on a hill, where roadless folks
Once roamed, genocided in a drama
Which portrays its legend romantically,
And children wa-wa at the memory.