nestled here in the crack between
two suburbs (one might deny that—
once a small town, now inundated by
subdivisions as the city’s hands outstretch)
are you, the cows and llamas
of my daily commute.

grazing on prairie grasses that
the developers haven’t touched,
one old farmhouse boarded up and fenced in,
the other bursting out yellow light
(still open for your business)
in the predawn mornings.

I search for you more than I
watch my speed, more than I
try to make the next light,
more than you can imagine as
you stalwartly brave the snow,
the wind, the rain without complaint.

will your wool appear in sweaters
at the local store? your beef and
leather be sold in a place where I can buy it?
these are the things that run through my mind
as I come over the hill, anxiously awaiting
my daily dose of yesteryear, of tomorrow, of hope.