Casey Road

 

Casey Road

Tell no one of this road remote 
beneath modest mountain
between curtains of forest. 

A few tire track slots blocked by chains,
signs POSTED (a complete statement) 
driveways snaking into mystery.

Here’s a clearing, a garden of beans,
a cabin with roof of blue tarp. 
A gutted pickup. 
Folks who own little but a chunk of forest
if you can own the wandering deer, moose, bear. 

Two hours walking, no traffic not one. 
We old lovers gather trash, mostly beer cans, 
one cracked soccer trophy 
and oddly in dirt among wild daisies
a shiny silver padlock—no key. 

Pileated peckers gouge old trees; 
quail with frowns flee our footsteps. 
Shush of pines, rattle of maples, 
scent of blue sky,
distant rush of river rapids,
accidental brush of our hands,
clink of cans we find we carry.

This peaceful paradise of modest trash— 
will the rich unlock, award trophies 
to themselves? Please—tell no one.

…..

First published in The Russell Streur Anthology 

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