In These Parts
the edge of town arrives quickly
you hang an inscrutable left
only to discover
one beat-up clapperboard hulk
hanging over tall corn
as if time and land-wrecked it
or
you drive to the end of
a suburban tract
and while waiting for the lights
a blue wash of sky
paints out
the last inflatable swimming pool
the land becomes a swampy hollow
prone by a basking river
treads gets sticky
in pent up pockets of tarry sun
needles of flinty light
glitter the blacktops
the road has dropped you
beyond the town limits
now miles fly straight
bending only to the whims
of natural inclinations
the prim madam inside
your G.P.S.
takes a long nap
turning to your wife
or dog
you smile
acknowledging
that the edge of town
has once again been shattered
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