East Of The Westroads

It feels funny-strange,
When -- and where -- it hits me...
A sense of being home, in a place
So familiar, yet distant, misty
Memories of a life which used to be...
Sensed vice pictured, a vapor trace
Of happiness, while walking on the side
Of a street without a sidewalk,
Clean, gray concrete, straight and wide,
Built to last on a former field
Of corn, a suburban pathway to the mall,
On which the Midwest mini-vans glide,
Toward all the happiness they can buy...
I am one of them, impossible to deny,
Scuffing the kerb under an empty sky.