Reading the poem
I think,
I wish I lived in
real country,
not just a bit of empty
space here and there,
city lots
waiting for sewers
to reap a profit.
I wish I lived
in real country,
where something
is farmed.
Tractors on the
shoulder of two-lane
bales of hay stacked
at the edge of fields.
Sometimes I feel
like I am no where,
that I am in no
place real,
and can’t begin
yet to live.
I hover at the
edges waiting
for something
I recognize
as life.
I remember.
The occasional mowed
lawn as close
as I get,
now and then
a summer fruit