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Steve Klepetar
Highway
Today highway clashes with my
shirt.
Trucks bounce around curves in the right
lane, terrified minivans tremble, caught
in a flash of tailwind. A grand house, with
many bright windows, balances on a cliff’s
edge, gleaming in morning sun. Children
don’t play on swings, slides and monkey
bars, no women talk across the yards. They
are building a new town here, digging out
black prairie, pouring foundations for town
homes and condominiums. Each has an island
of flowering bushes, pink petals on slender
green stalks sunk deep in gravel, flesh-toned.
Decks look out over a sea of grass, clean and
empty, a place to look out at stars, if ever they
would relent, return dancing wild in the night sky.
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