Pertinacious Seedheads

Stuck on the side of the road,
you start to feel the occassional
passing car or truck that bucks
your car in its gravel spot

is the mistaken one. The surface
of your imperial attention
is breeched by barbwire and grasses.
The fields assert themselves.

Someone lives here. A coffee cup
on the porch rail. Staked tomatoes.
How quickly you lose consequence
beside the hoed and ratified rows.

Copyright © 2006 Michelle Boisseau All rights reserved
from The National Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission