Heartland
Heartland
I
Some soft
summer mornings
we’d take
our little lane
west, on what
our parents
once called
a Sunday drive.
Roads here
were built
for horse
and carriage
and meander
like streams
searching for
a lost river.
When at times
the early fog
takes
possession
of the earth,
we drive
more from
memory
than vision—
secure
in our
obscurity.
II.
This morning
the fog
is thick
as Burma-Shave
and I imagine
an invading
army
padding silently
over the ridge
on elephants
and camels
to await
the blooding
of the sun.
But here
in the heartland,
we’ve little
left
to defend.
The young
and the able
long for more
than mastering
the s-curves
down Shawnee Ridge
and $7.50 an hour
at Burger
Den downtown.
They seem to know
from birth
that all our roads
lead only
to somewhere
else.