Middle of Nowhere

In Draft Status

They call this place Nowhere,

as if the word itself could drain the color from the fields,

strip the names from the creeks, silence the roosters at false dawn.

Yet here, in the soft hollow of Nowhere,

we keep a different map:

Robert Frost walks our frost-cracked roads each November,

murmuring about walls and the mischief in them,

while Longfellow keeps time with the hallway clock

and the slow heartbeat of evening lamplight.