Beholden to autumn, leaves fall.
Storms chase storm chasers along interstates,
thank Eisenhower
for foundation.
“He did not invent direction, but he provided structure,”
state their pamphlets, slipped beneath apartment doors, extolling:
“Praise be to the founding father of the structured storm.”

* * *
I am comforted completely and exclusively
by symmetrical divisions;
I do not leave the middle lane
under threat of collision, legal retribution;
I will fly past my exit ramp and the next
to be surrounded just ever so longer
by dashed lines, shoulders,
swathes of close-cropped grass, wild flowers,
assorted foliage. I write
my representatives once weekly to propose, humbly,
the expansion of these close-cropped swathes
to infinity in all directions. Turn aside
askance glances;
this is no stranger than most
local politics.

* * *
“Veer slowly, now, via county roads
to ancient Tuscaloosa, timeless,
to the cobbled streets of New Orleans;
genuflect at the city lines
then proceed gravely, hands folded,
as befit these hallowed grounds of men.”
Storms curse, disparage the careless leaves
and their haphazard descent to
Eisenhower-knows-where
beneath barren trees.