Route 72, Sunrise
Rich Foster
The sad and foreign country I live in
I was born in and never even left—
The pygmy forests of the Pine Barrens
The final resting place of garden gnomes
And toilet bowls dyed in the morning sun
With their cold ceramic wisdom easing
Into warmth, pointing to the great water
Just a few miles east as the Jersey dust
(from the passenger seat) pounds abandoned
Fish markets
As if the island’s a destination
When all I really want to do
Is rent a boat on the causeway
And row myself to Normandy