By Travis Park

The mailbox still leans
toward the road that used to end here.

Across the fence,
a pharmacy glows all night, its automatic doors opening for no one I know.

When I was eight,
my grandfather could name every field by the family that worked it.

Now I know intersections by whatever business closed there last.

At dusk,
the irrigation pipe
throws the same arc of water it always has.

Beyond it,
brake lights gather like another harvest.

~~~

Travis Park is a poet and writer from Indiana. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Presence, Modern Haiku, Wales Haiku Journal, Kōkako,Tipton Poetry Journal, McNeese Review, Route 7 Review, Listening Eye, among others. His writing often explores place, memory, family, and the strange edges of the everyday.