The country roads have changed so much:
McMansions hoard one fields like castles
and new sewage and city water lines scar 
six miles east, engaging the clutch
of double-wides trailers and tidy old houses. Maybe I’m jealous,
stuck in my city apartment, surrounded by Postmates
and concrete. But I have once dreamed of the idea of home,
of an acre or two somewhere away. Dreamed of grass
and the kind of old trees folks chopped,
maples too close to stone four-car garages.