Driving In Maine Poem by Jean Marie Ruiz

It is easy to get lost in July.
Pines mask the horizon in lessening light.
Fog shortens distances
between the seen and unseen.
Lakes materialize like unexpected memories.
Cemeteries surface from depths of leaves,
the gravestones pockmarked by snow and salt.

I take relentless detours.
Rotting barns despair beside the road
like aged elephants, their gray hides
bloated and buckling.
An American flag draped over
pale green clapboard
is a warning or a distress signal.

This is the marooning I always spoke of.
The harbor in Stonington reeks of gutted fish,
the water is smeared with oil.
Fishermen's sons careen through deserted streets
in pick-up trucks and rusted sedans.
I, too, am restless with hunger.
The foghorn moans like a widow.
I do not comfort her.