Small Road to Nowhere

I live on a hill with troubles,

mine, every one of them, everywhere

like the struck-back teeth of cemeteries.

The last one I had to haul up

myself, and it almost killed me.

But now it sits quiet in the back room,

dusty, tied like a ham and still

as the swing in the front yard

where gnats swarm and orbit an atom.

I only go to town for feed

and seed, and haircuts where the pole

spools its red, white, and blue ribbons

endlessly. Two chairs, no waiting.