Road Custodians

We speed past them,

Instead of pulling off

Onto the shoulder,

Winding down the window

And shouting, “Thank you.”

None of us wave.

Not even a honk for acknowledgement.

Our windows are tinted to keep out the heat of the sun,

And against the sight of orange vests

Bent over roadside garbage and weeds.

They stab the earth with sticks tipped in clawlike pinchers,

Not for defense,

But for the easy surrender of our “throw-away litter.”

Gum wrappers curled like dried flower-petals.

Burger sleeves still greasy with someone’s hunger pacified.

Cigarette packs emptied of breath and rebellion.

Each item a raspy whisper of a life

They can’t live.

A rag doll, face worn-faded to a blur,

Limbs tumbled and twisted in a final

Journey into forgotten comfort.

A Dodgers T-shirt,

Worn and faded with accents of oil and grease,

Its fabric breathing the memory of summer games

And engine repair, topped with beer stains of laughter.

Underwear,

Jeans,

A single sock,

All pieces of freedom’s wardrobe,

Discarded like molten skin.

The orange vested do not speak,

Their silence is anything but peace within.

Such is the kind of lonely

That comes from prisoners and their reality,

One of having to watch the world

Live a life they are forbidden to follow.

The sun dips toward a clear horizon.

The bags fill.

The shoulder is free of debris,

But no less empty of another tomorrow.

And then…

The van doors open

Like a yawning mouth that only swallows

The memories of the kind of drivers

Who threw away the remains of citizen conscience.

Ahead of the van,

A car with a young child peering out her car’s rear window,

Her little hand in a gesture of “hello”

Her smile the innocence of youth.

Acceleration and the distance between the two worlds

Extends further.