Ask any West Virginian about Grandma’s Furniture Warehouse
and the resultant explosion
will astound you.
They’ll scrunch up their faces,
draw in their breaths,
and screech in falsetto:
“COME ON DOWN TO THE BIG RED BARN OFF NUTTER FORT!”
You have unknowingly touched off the fuse on a memory bomb,
activated the chip
which lies embedded in our state’s collective unconscious
like the beacon which calls a pigeon home.
Our Sh’ma, our Our Father,
our national anthem,
is a local television ad
in which a mustachio’d man dressed in a frilly nightgown
and old-fashioned sleeping cap
shrieks at us about discount furniture and mattress sales.
Truly, nothing can scare us now.
Do your worst.