Perched on the Edge

The people living in these parts would likely
be offended if I said I'd traveled to a town
in the middle of nowhere, and rightly so. More
like the middle of somewhere perched on the edge
of anywhere at all you want to go to get away.
Far enough from home to make it count,
but close enough in case they really need you.
Mormons bike along the same two-lane that
I am on, seeing signs I've never seen as lollipop
palms in the distance tell me that I haven't
crossed state lines, just to different state of mind.
Watch for buzzards on the bridge, a helpful warning
and I look but there are none. They must be napping
in the woods back from the road. A headless cow
atop a pillar doesn't see me as I pass, nor does his twin
across the little drive that may or may not
lead to a stately mansion owned by dairy moguls
whose family has been here close to forever,
back when mosquitos were the size of birds
and over on the coast, the water was still clear.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013