1. I-15, Fillmore to Cove Fort
McCartney on the stereo,
pollution stained sunlight blinds my eyes.
No city in sight, but even here, spoiled
air. My son sits tense.
He wants my computer back.
Cows graze copper grass before a languid pond.
The man in car next to me talks to himself with hands
animated like black birds stormed
against a rusted sky. Get me out
of here.
What is real? Cottonwood. Rabbit brush clumped.
Juniper. The silence between
songs takes on meaning
I think. I teach sometimes. Mostly I count points,
assign value to busy work.
Everything
we do is to allocate significance to the insignificant.
A line of shiny metal boxes heads north.
A line of shiny metal boxes heads south
on their way to somewhere not here.
Movement. Charts. Traffic.
Progress.
War. Always war. Causes to be caring for.
A cigarette dangles from the mouth
of the man in the dark green sedan.
If I was significant I could place that
on the back of the eyelids of the nation
and it would mean something
worth remembering.
I could get numbers.
My value would increase.
I wouldn’t have to stand in line
to do good.
The Tushar Mountains stand loaded
with fresh snow glazed
gold before an azure sky
and but for the grace of God
go you and I.
©Steve Brown 2014
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