Psychic Soil Poem by Deborah Way

One day while traveling,
I stopped where a bronze historic plaque
announced to me that I
-even I-
was on the very site
of the westernmost naval battle of the Revolution.
So, I looked around me,
and I looked at the earth.

I wondered:
What if in those days of Revolution
people were as hot for psychics as they are now?
What if those warriors wouldn't act
without the go-ahead of one who sees ahead?

What if you,
O Soil that yet remains,
would have answered those questions
flung out about the future?
What would you say to that soldier-boy
when he lifted a handful of you,
sifting slowly,
if he asked,
'Is this patch of ground worth the shedding of my blood?
Worth the ending of my life?
What will my descendants do with the gift of it? '

Would you tell him, O Soil, what I see?
Would you say:
'Someday, there will be a small truck stop here.
People will traffic along this byway,
-after all, US 41 is a decent 4-lane highway-
But as for this spot...well
Someday it shall house
a small truck stop,
a lone diner,
and a 10-room motel.
The truck stop will offer things like showers and maps,
hot dogs will roll forever to nowhere under warmer lights,
and big shriveled pickles (sealed in juicy plastic bags) will sit
under the shopkeeper's counter.
People will laze here, vacant-eyed, waiting,
but not for anything in particular.
They'll sit with their tennis shoes propped on the arm rests
of the open doors
of their rusty pickup trucks.
All the while they'll stare blankly at the window ads
for liquors and lotteries,
ice cream and cigarettes.

O Soil, is your silence merciful?
Or would the soldier-boy see even the likes of these
as kinsmen?
Sadly, too much modern spin swirls on soldier-boy's motives
for me to find that answer
through my own investigations;
and the soil?
It is silent
both directions.