Driving Through Small Town, Wisconsin

the smooth grain of the shore touches red and white skis.
the black squirrel hides more than nuts in little holes,
playing with fear, with stress because she cannot remember
her locker combination or her class schedule. awaken.
god will find you here, under this cool, abandoned tree.
throw yourself upon the stranger's grave. let her own
her theater dreams. let the Jeep be without comment. let
the disorganized backpack live out its own clover-sided hope.
the Bofa on the sofa surprises us; walks out back to where
the fire's aroma plays "marching band" through chilled nostrils,
flared to allow oxygen through while at a mother's breast.

It is in the fall and in the small towns, reached only after
exiting the highway, where colorful metal roofs
make hungry longings evaporate into stillness.