We see them frequently:

roadside crosses.

 

          Some peek from behind  

          brown, brittle           

          tumbleweeds.

          Others bloom 

          blue plastic petals.

 

          Some bear names.

          Some wave ribbons.
          Some wear lichen. 

 

In a bar ditch,

two miles from home,

stands a cross 

wrapped in tiger stripes

poised to leap 

with hometown pride. 

          As once did the youth 

          whose spirit 

          it commemorates.

 

Did the young athlete

play volleyball or football?

Drink beer or serve Mass?

Shout cheers or run laps?

           Repair engines

           plow the earth
           or work the counter 

           at Dollar General?

 

I don’t know the name

but I wince at the pain

           that a staked-down wreath

           stabs into the ground.

 

Roadside crosses.

           Fading echoes

           of district tournaments? 

                    Or strident shouts 

                    from demanding coaches?