Great Highway (18 46th Avenue)

Before dawn

foghorns call me

from the depot.

I grace the cities fringe;

mine is the westernmost route.

My banner is the sails

of the windmills and

my oath is to the Legion of Honor,

soaked in fog.

I am chaperone to scholars

detached from examination;

they depart with glee

to inspect the bison

grazing in their paddock.

The gaze of Rodin’s Thinker

rests upon giant freighters

steeped in sea spray

gliding past my

roundabout fountain.

My evening shadow

is cast across the sunset.

Overnight

I dream the alphabet

intoned in reverse.

Before dawn

foghorns call me

from the depot.