We were beetling up the new bile duct from the city
Where legions of semis infest and town houses burst through the forest.
An old farmer, pinched cap, walked the ditch
His tractor resting on the last acre of cultivated land for miles around.
Withered hedgerows festering on the edges of building rubble.
Our country roads have new signs, rehabilitation plans
Like they are on a bender,
Need sobering up.
Growing out instead of up
The fetish of ownership manifests in playing for par
Toxic green out back.
Invisible ink on the construction signs say,
‘If you didn’t mind, you’d be home now.’