The Mother of God can pop
up anywhere, even along
this country song of a road.
She stares blankly from
that farmhouse porch,
treasuring all things
within her plaster heart,
praying for us bikers-by,
now and at the hour—
When the world ends,
bang or whimper TBD,
what will become of
these corn-towering miles,
the calves in those hutches,
my aching calves, thighs, arms,
all this age’s stand-in Marys?
