Steven Ray Smith, “Median”

This morning, I came to a hard stop,
meaning the lanes ahead were closed
for sweeping glass from the asphalt,
and I left my idling berlinetta
and walked into the house of God.

One important point:
I was only following a red bird that flew in there,
something to forget the impending reprimand for being late.
I did not realize it was the house of God
until my feet depressed in the morass,
so wild and soggy that a team of termites
were eating a fallen limb with no rush or deadline at all.
At first I thought, how can this wildness be so close
to our beautiful dysfunctional highway?

The response luxuriated behind me and overhead:
because it can, and it is!




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