Driving Through

This could be the town you’re from,

marked only by what it’s near.

The gas station man speaks of weather

and the high school football team

just as you knew he would—

kind to strangers, happy to live here.

Tell yourself it doesn’t matter now,

you’re only driving through.

Past the sagging, empty porches

locked up tight to travelers’ stares,

toward the great dark of the fields,

your headlights startle a flock of

old love letters—still undelivered,

enroute for years.