The Shape of Things to Come
Wispy clouds pass like dreams
over cornfields near the shoulder
of a highway where I stand.
I have many homes, but here
in Sigourney I’m staying for the week
to control traffic in the countryside.
The farms that lie along the road
each have a story to tell,
and each day I talk to the clerk
at the hotel and show her a poem.
The clerk says she’s getting
another job at a nursing home,
and we’re drawn together
when we say we’ve both known
people who had dementia and died.
I tell her on a clear day
I can look to the south
and see the place
where the spread of fields
touches the sky.
This day, the skies grow heavy
when draped by dark clouds
and a linesman says
a storm is on the way
and I think of how fast
life can change in a matter
of hours,
but we continue to work
under a patter of rain
and later hear a tornado
formed south of us
and tore through
the north part of Missouri,
we’re saved.
After work I savor
conversations with the clerk
and the waitress in a diner
who says she’s married
and living on a farm,
the friendships I needed
while working on the road.
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