Life As Seen By A Country Road

There’s blood on me again.
Another dead deer.
A truck hit it last night
without bothering to stop.
Now it’s half on me and
half off, bloated belly
exposed to the spring sun.
Cars speed past
on their way to jobs;
most of them I know.
They’ve traveled on me
many times. That’s the thing
about country roads—
there’s not much variety.
I wonder if there’ll be any
drunk drivers today.
There usually are.
It’s amusing how they try
not to swerve by going slow,
as if anyone who saw them
couldn’t tell they were drunk.
This guy once stopped
in my center, yellow lines
directly beneath his car,
opened his door, and
threw up all over me.
The mess was there until
the next time it rained.
Two school-skippers
traipse down my side,
cigarettes in hand,
kicking up gravel as
they talk about boyfriends
and how much they want
to leave this dead-end town.
A dog wanders from its home.
Hours pass. Traffic slows.
A man mows the outer edge
of his lawn, grass shards
spraying in my direction.
A toddler comes bounding
towards me, barefoot,
blue popsicle clutched
in his pudgy fingers.
He picks up a rock and
throws it down. Stands
with his feet on the
no-passing lines.
He spots a caterpillar
and reaches for it.
Then his mother, realizing
he’s wandered into the road,
opens the screen door
and calls him back inside.