Bike pushed past the ghosts of cars,
Asphalt cracked like glass,
Grasses grew and withered on the faults
Drying in the sun.
The sun sets down,
mud of poisoned river.
I shiver with anticipation,
Of winters yet to come.
Come back from Rite Aid,
Two plastic bags lend meaning,
leans against the wind
and treads on parallel path.
To me this place is wasteland,
decaying, battered, polluted,
Displaying spoils of battle
She wanders to her home.