A Roadside Stand
The
little old house was out with a little new shed
In front
at the edge of the road where the traffic sped,
A
roadside stand that too pathetically plead,
It would
not be fair to say for a dole of bread,
But for
some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports
The
flower of cities from sinking and withering faint.
The
polished traffic passed with a mind ahead,
Or if
ever aside a moment, then out of sorts
At
having the landscape marred with the artless paint
Of signs
that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong
Offered
for sale wild berries in wooden quarts,
Or
crook-necked golden squash with silver warts,
Or
beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene.
You have
the money, but if you want to be mean,
Why keep
your money (this crossly), and go along.
The hurt
to the scenery wouldn't be my complaint
So much
as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid:
Here far
from the city we make our roadside stand
And ask
for some city money to feel in hand
To try if
it will not make our being expand,
And give
us the life of the moving pictures' promise
That the
party in power is said to be keeping from us.
It is in
the news that all these pitiful kin
Are to
be bought out and mercifully gathered in
To live
in villages next to the theatre and store
At the
shiny desert with spots of gloom
That
might be people and are but cedar,
Have no
purpose, have no leader,
Have
never made the first move to assemble,
And so
are nothing to make her tremble.
She can
think of places that are not thus
Without
indulging a 'Not for us!”
Life is
not so sinister-grave.
Matter
of fact has made them brave.
He is
husband, she is wife.
She
fears not him, they fear not life.
They
know where another light has been
And more
than one to theirs akin,
But
earlier out for bed tonight,
So lost
on me in my surface flight.
This I
saw when waking late,
Going by
at a railroad rate,
Looking
through wreaths of engine smoke
Far into
the lives of other folk.
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