Things on the Side of the Road
Traffic cones, construction workers, a sign
illegible on a tree, dead branches, dead deer,
dead cats, dead dogs—dead animals that maybe
aren't dead yet—McDonald's wrappers, plastic bottles
and a used condom, and I think the end of a used
needle, too, and grass, dead grass, corn fields, street
signs, and maybe you, if my game of telephone
was right—if, through the telephone cords and
through the satellite signals and through the
cellphone calls hopping over state lines, if,
through that, I got it right, if I have all my
information together, then, yes, once it was you,
and maybe her, maybe stacked on top of each
other, maybe a few feet away but still in one
connected ditch, and maybe your mother found you.
The reality of you is warped in my head
from that brief game of telephone, but when I
think of you, I think about your black glasses
and your hair tied tightly up—or maybe
splayed out, like a halo around your head, and
I imagine the grass yellowed and dead
even though it was the middle of summer.