AT THE BOARDER:
Following Blacktop snakes heading West towards the boarder.
Reading soporific white line poetry hugging ragged green.
The fences & railings of my youth decay at the edge of fields
grazed by this season’s flock. The hum of single engined planes,
cutting clouds above hop poles ripening festoons before harvest.
I pull over, stop, turn off the engine, wind down the window &
listen, hesitating. Should I abandon the car & walk off?
Disappear drown myself in silence between the fields, never to
be found? I hold my breath & count, listening for a sign.