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.