The stretch of Route 60 leading to Logan Airport is littered with prosaic mundane. The more I drive down it, the more I learn it – the garden shop lot full of cement containers, the liquor store sign with each letter holding its own square — the less ugly, the more varied, each bit of it seems. Nothing grows beautiful, but each thing possesses value, is worth consideration, by virtue of its existence.
Thinking about these ugly pieces grown less so over time had me thinking about middle-aged bodies, and that led to the poem The Siren Calls Out from Middle Age. Thank you to Punchnel's for publishing!