Like our cars, which have our faces,
\nand our houses, which look down
\non us under their folded hats,<\/p>\n
these resemble us, though nothing
\nwe have made seems so steadfast.
\nExiled to the roadside,<\/p>\n
they stand in all weather, ignored
\nexcept for the rows of swallows
\nthat remember them in springtime,<\/p>\n
and the occasional tree holding up
\na hole workmen have cut
\nto let the lines through. Yet they go on<\/p>\n
balancing cables on their shoulders
\nand passing them to the next
\nand the next, this one extending<\/p>\n
a wire to a farmhouse, that one
\nat the corner sending lines
\nfour ways at once, until miles<\/p>\n
away where the road widens,
\nand the tallest poles rise,
\nbearing streetlamps high above<\/p>\n
the doors of the town, arriving
\nby going nowhere at all, each,
\nlike the others that brought them here,<\/p>\n
making its way by accepting
\nwhat’s given, and holding on,
\nand standing still.<\/p>\n\n
Explore an earlier version of this poem through a question about craft.<\/p> <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n