AWAY FROM PROGRESS

It's one of those drives
into the country
where it feels like
we're never going to get there.
What used to be corn-fields
is now housing developments.
The closest thing to golden
is the hair of a peroxide blonde
who's watering her lawn
while kids pedal plastic cars
into her ankles.
On one side,
it's "Hawk Grove"
and not a hawk in sight.
On the other,
"Willow Creek."
It's a tossup what happened first:
the willows were hacked down
or the creek drained dry.
"Progress," my wife sighs.
To her, that word's a soporific.
To me, it's a studded glove
slapped across my face,
challenging me to a duel.
Only the challenge is the duel.
And I lost.
We drive on
and finally do find ourselves
amongst corn fields.
It'd feel like a museum
were it not for the occasional
wood-framed farm house
and a woman gathering eggs,
not watering lawns,
and kids laughing and playing without
the aid of plastic pedals.
Then we see the sign
plunged into the soft, rich soil ahead.
"Coming soon..." it says.
For now at least, it just refers to us.