SCRAPS OF LAND
This is to praise the awkward triangle
of wild grass and little snakes
at the edge of TechRidge Industrial Park.
This for the dry creek bed of memory
behind the turned backs
of the Lamar Square apartments.
This is a song for the stunted mesquite grove
between the gas station and the railroad tracks,
and for love of unmowed right of way
beneath the leaping on-ramps
down by the river,
the ungoverned relief of dirt
so bounded by purpose
that it has none,
scraps of land
that will never be combined,
who’s emptiness is refuge
from responsibility
and the big plans
of ambitious men.