Sometimes I get emails from my oldest brother, and often times they will look something like this:
“cleaning out the stuff from my office… found a poem, written in my handwriting, that I have no recollection of whatsoever… written on the back of a grad school rejection letter”
The road runs right through most of the
the cross streets come fast with red, yellow
and green lights
telling you what to do, their colors spangled
together with the rest.
Pre-interstate, this road has two lanes or four,
or none, pedestrians and crossing guards,
in the sixties sometimes.
The road runs from the east coast, somewhere
in the middle, south for a while.
It gets to the big wide open parts quickly and
runs right off the side of the map,
as if tit was destined to claim half the world.
But most people just take the
interstate. This road manifests itself in
names: Main, Elm…
It didnt’ have much neon, but that it did have,
it liked. There were some on the
gas station, and the bar. Here, they called it
Main. They wanted
to be left alone. That’s what I heard, anyway.
We never met.