when the main roads are full,
GPS re-routes me and I roam the backroads.
My twin and I have a game we like to play.
No name for it, just counting.
We count how many cotton fields,
we count how many churches,
we count how many schools, corn fields, and we count how many gas stations.
But on these roads,
and on this day,
I count alone.
And I come across a house,
half-buried in the ground.
The windows are black and gaping,
the roof shambled and kissing earth – a true reclamation, by nature.
Leave it to the mind to do what it does best;
a dramatic rebuild of time’s awesome mess in the blink of an eye.
The house is now upright and there’s glass and window panes.
A man and his wife rock with slate faces
on their front porch.
I nod to them, as the image instantly fades,
and continue our counting game:
27 cotton fields
18 corn fields
3 gas stations