Gravel is babbling

down sugarcane lanes 

as I drive,

philosophizing 

about the reason for sudden relocation.

Everything is swamp:

mold in the air, on trees, in me.

Willows weeping,

bidding Florida Highway Men

to come paint them again.

Baby alligators born unannounced &

white sandhill cranes haunt treetops unheralded.

Creaky steps 

up to the shop 

creaky voices telling me 

$5.99.

This mercantile possesses more trinkets

than the town does people.

& everyone here is old.

The young look like they know

they have never left 

& will never go.

Traffic lights strung up on wires,

swaying in non-existent wind,

twist & obscure the signal

so I just go on, deliberately.