The Highway and The Bog

based on true events but not completely accurate

I.

the highway spans forever,

heat waves rising

and it brings the tired, the sick,

the poor

and the billboards advertise solace,

all the rest they could ever need:

an unreachable dream

lit by miniature torches

flickering in the daytime,

and then they vanish in the distance.

II.

I walked along the highway

after work today,

legs restless but tired.

perhaps there were wings on my shoes

carrying my sniffling self.

and I was a man on the highway

whose mother once thought the two geese

in rigor mortis

on the road’s shoulder

were eagles, and lamented the death

of freedom

but I did not.

III.

where two highways intersected

construction was a dirt mountain

on my side of the road

and as a shortcut I went across

the meadow.

for a moment I lay in the evening sun,

felt the warm earth under my back

and I found rest

in its solidity, so unlike life,

until my gut rumbled.

IV.

the meadow was a highway 

and led me to a swamp

where the flowers vanished

and dead grass was a floor

that smelled of sulfur

but didn’t curb my appetite.

thinking it was but a few inches deep,

I took a step

and found the wings on my soles

plucked, clipped, and stolen away,

and my freedom with them

so for my last supper,

I tasted mud.