The other side of shade,
on the banks of the unfamiliar,
where I am mindful of dust,
from towns past,
but not from here.
It’s a summer loud day, the wind
and sky companions,
a place some call home,
where a sweater is used for warmth
or a pillow.
A place where houses
and main street look the same
with railroad yards, deserted
motels and roadside picnic tables carved
with initials.
Roger Singer 