Out by the side of the road
Ribs gleaming in the whitened sun,
The dead dog of purpose won't
Give up its ghost.
It just lies there,
Waiting for a heavenly host
To come and carry it away
A white mile marker, propping
Up the day, a billboard hoax that
Gets in the way of the scenery,
Disturbing the greenery,
Promising travelers on.
Fortune, that invisible
Hand, strikes without warning,
Is impossible to decipher
With its siren blare, its
Big Six Wheel, its
Protocol of Random moments.
True culture is built
On reverence.
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