Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume One Issue Three
Phoebe Reeves Commute
Convicts, like mobile traffic cones in their
orange jumpsuits, scour the spring grass for trash
to gather in their deep garbage bags—the fast
food wrappers, cigarettes, discarded cassette
tapes you always see streaming their guts out in the
breeze of passing cars. The goose splayed naked
in the median, three days dead, wings curled half
closed—or is it half open?—to shelter the brown-
black body's caving in beside the rumble strip.
As they move, they leave the bags full, tied, along
the road, markers that divide the world
I live in from the one I travel through.