I drove down to Dixie Belle Curve
and took a picture of the road where
the state highway department was moving it,
to make room for a housing project on the beach,
that is, to make it more private. I took a picture
with my point-and-shoot camera. I was a photojournalist.
My own paparazzo.
None of the papers covered this story.
It wasn’t news. It was business as usual.
Mr. Peabody’s coal trains had hauled it away.