The Glutton

The caterpillar had eaten all the leaves on the bough.

You pig, said the sparrow, you are killing the tree.

How am I supposed to know, the caterpillar cried, 

can't you see I don't have eyes.

Roads  

Macadam, asphalt, blacktop, tar. 

Roads will take you anywhere,

speeding through the countryside, every bend a mystery, 

every unevenness a jolt into something not known. 

Roads on islands are conflicted 

because they do not get you anywhere really, 

they are circular and apologetic about that. 

Mountain roads turn cars into eagles, 

breasting the current then streaking down, 

every eyelid opened wide. 

Shore roads and causeways 

lick the water while the water licks them. 

Frontage roads like zoo animals prowling 

their perimeters, pining to be free. 

The dead end road is indeed a death, 

irreversible and to be avoided 

until the time you wish not to return. 

Expressways and beltways that traffic courses through 

like blood through muscle, cars by the thousand, 

every destination of economic significance.  

City boulevards throw each car in the spotlight

announcing a major breakthrough, you.

Alleyways where cats trip by on tiptoes,

and the modest lane that guides us to the garage, 

the squeaky brake that tells you you are home.

Bio: Mike Finley is a Pushcart awardee who writes for a living in St. Paul.  His poems have appeared in Paris Review and Rolling Stone.  His most recent project is ZOMBIE GIRL, a graphic novel, the proceeds of which go to anti-suicide work in the Twin Cities.  More info and samples are at http://mfinley.com/daniele.