Restless Indiana
sojourners
marooned on I-69
argue, cuss and
complain,
like Circean bears or
swine.
The crash commutes an
hour
into an odyssey. Ruins
plans.
One young couple, screwy
from the steaming lotus
of stalled cars, crank
up
their radio, exit out
of their car to
dance.
Others cast a bored eye
on a farmhouse, anchored
off-road by a swing set
and a cemetery,
small as a thumb.
An invisible child
swings.
Telemachus—Penelope’s
only
son. He pumps his swing
as high as heat waves
over the soft pitch of
highway.
High as the lofty hills
beckoning from Ithaca or
high
as a siren-sister’s
mad-song.
No matter. All children
let go.
Unseen or not. Sail with wax
wings above corn rows,
cars
and finally over the
frail fence.
To land in tiny boats of
earth,
which swallows all time
and all
travelers. Even
Odysseus,
of the many designs,
washed up in the wreck
ahead.