The old road curves off the highway.
A few clapboard or brick houses remain,
nestled in a wide arc, grassed-in.
Pavement Ends, the sign might read.
The old road climbs for awhile,
then an equal and opposite curve
rejoins it to the passing stream.
We need it more than it needs us.
The old road once fed all these towns
along the Eastern coast. Piece by piece,
material traces reconstruct it: two parallel
ruts in the frozen mud, a broken line
charted by the Geological Survey,
an alleé between the stoutest trees,
two specimen oaks standing sentry
at an empty cellar hole.
My roadside archaeologists
endlessly rediscover these remnants
of our pedestrian past,
too well-trammeled to call history.