written By
Under the triple-laned
lit up turnpike overpass,
sharp-tipped weeds
reach through weathered rocks,
as if unaware
of how hard someone
tried to stop them.
There is growth under everything
you’ve driven past,
another WaWa, that bagel shop,
the Costco station
open at 6AM. Familiar curls
of highway gleam in the pre-dawn,
and on the radio,
a slow jazz movement
after the news
with promises
that an upcoming interview
will offer a glimpse
into a better way.
At the traffic light, a line
of cars behind you.
Upturned orange detour signs
lean against weedy guardrails,
while you snap back from a reverie
astonished
at how easy it seems
to start anew
once the light turns.
