Roadside Poem by Sarah Elizabeth Clark

The little roadside crosses,
made of wood, found in grief
by parents and friends,
woken in their sleep
by the knock or call.
All the world crashes
and at the site lies
cardboard with a name.
To what aim?
What purpose is there here?
So florists may make
their sombre bouquets?
So the police may make
their grim house calls?
Is that why you went away?
Leaving a wreckage behind you.
Broken shell, mangled metal.
All those rosy petals,
the roadside warning.