Crop Circles
Is anyone out there?
The words echo…
but only in the head of the last child to leave home.
There are no mountains here, not even hills to speak of.
The horizon drips of method, order, constancy--
much like those who look on it from their porch swings
night after night after night.
Motionless sky laid atop telephone poles and once-red barns
stacked upon endless farmer’s field.
No sparkling streams teeming with fish or playing children,
just a river of rainwater speeding through
the ditch alongside the highway in the front yard--
and only for one month out of the year.
The asphalt pathway, taken mostly by semi-trucks
with out-of-state license plates, tries in vain to connect
the cluster of several-generation households
to the outside world.
Hope visits only in color form,
and like the alien rainfall,
sticks around but for an instant
in the slow and steady crawl of time.
Green shoots and sprouts turn to worthless golden corn stalks overnight,
as the watering stops and the sun dries.
Fields, gardens, and scorched yards alike sport matching yellow dress.
Those who tend them don’t dare wear anything so flashy.
While the feature-less landscape would never grace a postcard or travel brochure,
the wildlife is plentiful--
their numbers outdoing the proud tally on the humble population sign.
Three, four, sometimes a handful of beasts per yard--
hounds and mutts chained, like their owners, to this place.
The ground around their food and water bowls rendered barren and fallow
from a constant and steady pacing.
Nowhere to go, but in circles.
Their freedom, dictated by the number of rusty metal links,
the feet of frayed rope or old clothesline,
leads them up to--
but not over--
wooden fence lines.
The soil on the other side rendered barren and fallow
from a constant and steady pacing.
Nowhere to go, but in circles.
Is anyone out there?
The words echo…
but only in the head of the last child to leave home.
There are no mountains here, not even hills to speak of.
The horizon drips of method, order, constancy--
much like those who look on it from their porch swings
night after night after night.
Motionless sky laid atop telephone poles and once-red barns
stacked upon endless farmer’s field.
No sparkling streams teeming with fish or playing children,
just a river of rainwater speeding through
the ditch alongside the highway in the front yard--
and only for one month out of the year.
The asphalt pathway, taken mostly by semi-trucks
with out-of-state license plates, tries in vain to connect
the cluster of several-generation households
to the outside world.
Hope visits only in color form,
and like the alien rainfall,
sticks around but for an instant
in the slow and steady crawl of time.
Green shoots and sprouts turn to worthless golden corn stalks overnight,
as the watering stops and the sun dries.
Fields, gardens, and scorched yards alike sport matching yellow dress.
Those who tend them don’t dare wear anything so flashy.
While the feature-less landscape would never grace a postcard or travel brochure,
the wildlife is plentiful--
their numbers outdoing the proud tally on the humble population sign.
Three, four, sometimes a handful of beasts per yard--
hounds and mutts chained, like their owners, to this place.
The ground around their food and water bowls rendered barren and fallow
from a constant and steady pacing.
Nowhere to go, but in circles.
Their freedom, dictated by the number of rusty metal links,
the feet of frayed rope or old clothesline,
leads them up to--
but not over--
wooden fence lines.
The soil on the other side rendered barren and fallow
from a constant and steady pacing.
Nowhere to go, but in circles.
Music Like Life
Rock n’ roll in the city
leads to sex in a strange bedroom,
leads to lullabyes and changed tunes,
leads to middle-school jazz band in the suburbs,
leads to a class song and packed auditorium.
A march, a fanfare, a recessional.
Silver clinking on glass
leads to whispered nursery rhymes, shouted camp songs,
leads to golden oldies and books on tape,
leads to easy listening in the waiting room.
A march, a fanfare, a recessional.
The fat lady’s sung.
