95 south
down, down,
stop.
Here, thick vines
reclaim the brick.
An eager train
barrels in–
seems to stretch for miles,
carrying what?
I don’t know.
I think it goes
to honey boo boo’s
house.
The sun reflects off broken glass,
embedded in black pavement.
I remove my sunglasses
and soak it in.
The air is warmer
the lattes are cheaper
and the froth
coats my throat
just right.
Parkway South 