Up and down the rainy
busy highway, all the hardest-
working colors—the kelly
green of sheetmetal
signs, the pale man-made
grey of roadways and skinny hyper-
reality yellow of thin lines—stand cross
and stiff—foregrounded
and jealous—
of the drooping mangy auburn
that slopes to grace those
loose tresses of trees—and the quick
shocks of ad hoc persimmon
that hug scads of shrubs swaying
listlessly off in the foggy
and trivially
pretty periphery.
Why is it?—they grouse,
that some streaks of light
are damned to be so
plainly—
seen all the time?
While others just get—to hang back
and shoot, pretty vaguely
for some truly amazing—
incidental scenery?
