Roadside Cross

Roadside Cross

I see
the roadside cross
hidden in kudzu and dandelions
near the intersection
of a Waffle House
and a Food Lion—
a short walk
from
where I live.

Flowers haven’t been placed
beneath
its T
in months.

And I can’t make out the
rain-blurred,
traffic-muddied letters
that spell out
this person’s name,
except for
the few letters
that lean backwards—
d…j…

And the date of death—
I can make
out only the zero letters
that could be
a real zero:
…6…9

My dog
tries to pee
on it—
and
I
pull him
away.

I touch it,
wanting to hug it—
the cross.

Christ never felt so close, human—warm.

I think of this person
being struck—
and falling
unseen into
the night—
the thick foliage—
the car—
driving…
on…

From
the Waffle House
I see a man
dwelling on his omelette
and also
watching
us
in the light rain
that starts
to fall.

He turns
away
after he
sees us
staring back.

He looks
like he was
crying,
but
that
could have
been
the rain
falling
on us.

A car
drives by—
obscene rap lyrics,
a screaming demon,
screeching
from its
open windows—

driving through a puddle—
covering our legs and paws
in dirt and mud
and other
road filth
thrown out
of open windows.

I watched the man
put on his brown jacket,
his hunting cap,
quickly pay his tab,
and leave—
his pickup tires
screaming
his rage
and sadness.

My boy,
my little boy—
was tugging
his leash ahead
urging us home,
to forget
the whole of this moment,
forget about uprooting
this roadside cross
and putting it in
the bright sunlight
after the rain—

let it rest,
exposed again,
to the cycle
of light and rain
fall 
over and over…