Just Off Interstate 40 Poem by Frank Avon

There it stands
on an interstate access route,
with traffic whizzing by
all day and all night.

Between a Waffle House
and a Pizza Hut,
near Taco Bell and Shoney's,
there it stands:

a large, old locust,
its trunk bifurcated
when it was a sprout
in someones's pasture,

stands, reaching
toward the sky, its leaves
dancing in the breeze (its
blossoms in the spring

summoning locust winter) ,
and swinging from its limbs,
from uppermost to lowest,
their tips sweeping the ground,

their leaves green and profuse
against the dainty locust leaflets,
are long, long sprays of
Virginia creeper.

Virginia creeper,
far, far from the Old Dominion,
Virginie, swept up in modern
urbanization and mechanization,

lends its sweep and grace,
as if this were still 1620,
to the land, to the air,
climbing high, swinging low.

It is hardy and resolute,
its old craggy stems
clinging to the bark
of the vulnerable locust.

Virginia creeper, persistent,
creeping, creeping higher
up that large, old locust,
swaying gracefully

and graciously reminding us,
weary travelers that we are,
among fast food franchises,
that in the terstices

of what we have demanded,
alongside pavement and neon,
and noise and oblivion,
simplicity can be elegant.