I live on the edges of things,
Like bachelor buttons and Queen Anne’s lace,
That place where the blacktop crumbles into the shoulder.
My thoughts live there in the stony shoulder, crumbling.
It’s an ugly spot
Not elegant, but full of life and decay.
The edge allows for what wants to be forgotten.
It’s a stronghold
of faded labels tossed beer cans flung pizza boxes crushed
filters of last year’s lovers one old dead shoe thatgot tired of walking
anything that can be thrown out the window of a car like an unkept
promise or a the responsibility for broken heart or essential questions
about life lost in the wind tossed into that ditch there are animals,
bunnies, muskrats that lurk in the edge and watch and get out of the
way deer who wait or eat or leap out to be killed some snapping turtles
and sometimes a snake
The edge does not have manners,
Dept. of Public Works etiquette.
spills over uproots from below collects the artifacts of what is thrown out
Because the edge does not want to be an edge.
It wants to be who we are when we are actually awake.
the roadsides crumble into fertile ground the weeds and the
wildflowers overreach their grasp the animals are abundant fat and
healthy all that is discarded weathers white naturalizes
The edge, not the main road, is where we live.
the more we clean it up the more it comes back