Beside the highway
a cross waist-high
hand-lettered
whitewash frosting
graying wood
placed
where someone died

tied to it plastic flowers almost colorless
from constant assault of sun and rain and misery whizzing by

Why
not a cross
on the piano bench
in the booth at Applebee’s
by Baldacci’s books in Fiction
at the local library

or at the park near
the orange hoop
like a halo high over
the key
he slid across
spun
faked
jumped
so light
you’d think he wasn’t
of this world