is rolling through rural New York,
top down, sun shining, upstate maize tasselling
in the September heat
of this endless Sunday.
A Smokie and a trash fire
watch the road a quarter mile apart.
We don’t watch them back–
our eyes are full of alt-rock tunes,
sneakers, Pringles, and tangled whiskers.
Cumulus hangs from the blue of the sky,
but we are neither just nor unjust.
Purple thistles reach from the ditches,
cursed and blessed with life like us.
Our vital lenses
fog from time to time,
but we’ll push on, if we can hold together,
toward the north, toward the border,