Mile Marker 117

By the highway road
lies an unkempt garland
eclectic mixture
not strained by florist hand
standing vigil
over once careening tracks
now invisible
scrubbed by Nature's fan
covered with perennial shield

To the passing eye
a shallow marker
spilled by unknown hand
to occupied minds
a colloquial symbol
shrouded with death's shadow
that filters quickly
into the prism
of a new, bright day
a veiled sorrow
spliced incongruently
on an innocuous stretch
streaming with vitality

Through the bloodshot lens
of a solitary, grieving mother
an endless reel continuously winds
on the undeveloped film
scenes of glossy, smiling faces
riding in mint, cherry-red Trans Am
morph into fabricated horror:
terror-struck faces
curdling screams
screeching tires.
On the grinding lens
brims an irritating stye,
a solemn cross to bear
to the growing garland
at Mile Marker 117