Backroads

The hot, cracked asphalt tells the story:
This was the main drag once,
The road upon which the explorers and native Americans
Treked, looking for game and open spaces,
The road where pioneers found new land
Even the highway by which folks from Chicago
And Detroit, butchers and factory workers,
Labor and capital
Left the drudgery and work behind
For a week in Florida, Miami and St. Pete,
But also the route by which the oldtime farmers
Took their peaches to market
And bore the cotton bolls on the backs
Of their neighbors, scars spreading
Across the ribs, spanning the hills
Crossing the rivers and streams.

But Ike wouldn't have it
No, you needed to build super-highways
And survey the country
Transected with broad lines and four-lanes
Until the old ways were forgotten
Left to grow thick with foliage
Weeds and vines
Choking out the peach trees
Once stitched across the land
In a crazy quilt design
The remnants remaining behind
For the less practical and nostalgic
To cut loose from the endless miles
Of highway hypnosis
And find an old way again
Which still leading to peach stands
And ears of corn sold on the side of the road
And beaches and seafood and sunshine
Waiting at the end of the same old rainbow.