Sunday Septembers us windward, windows down, Rosanne Cash motherless children from the dash. Route 5 more west, more passing lane than anyone knows what to do with these days. Denimed air, season reflects a moonish ring, hovering above us & acres & acres of newly yellowed fields. Night noises noon–the susurrus of insects. Us, me and him, we drive. Out for a look or for a what’s left. Much, and also not much. Here’s what: River. Town. Smokestack. Statue of Liberty popped on concrete blocks. Shingle shack. Windowless woman walking gaunt. At intervals, signs remind us a canal still locks. And unlocks. Car for sale. Bale of hay. Here 3(0)(00)(000)(0000) years fret a landscape. Here our patinated confluence of defeats. Is it that fewer people people isolation’s periphery. Is it that firm resolve of weeds. This terrain, a lance, a breach, a coppered knot between us. Car for sale. Bale of hay.
Mile after mile,
roadside totems littered,
Header photo by Susan Petrie. Photo of Susan Petrie by Daniel Petrie.