Fruit Stripe Barn
O fruit stripe barn,
in the wilds of western Illinois,
down an old highway
traveled only by those seeking to avoid others,
you rise from the oppressive flatness,
a beacon of whimsy
in the monochrome landscape.
What farmer planted you there and
what attack of fancy led to the pastel
stripes of your suit; every color of sherbet represented,
faded and peeling but still
colorful after all these years?
You are long disused, a crumbling monument to
different times, and I
can’t help but feel that you
remained standing just so that I
could see you this morning
and smile at your audacity.