When my sister sees people walking on the road
in all black at night
she gets angry wondering where
he's going, what brought him there
to the middle of nowhere in Jackson.
We're surrounded by cranberry bogs.
Perhaps he's picking cranberries
at 2:14 in the morning.
It made sense to me.
He may have been the youngest
writer for some well known
magazine for all I know,
ran for some government position
to mess with the numbers.
All I know was driving down
Cedars Bridge Road
at 2:17 in the morning
was that I really
wanted some cranberries.