Traveling the Interstate after My Little Brother’s Funeral

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We slow.
      What is this? Why?
            We ride along, our eyes,

weary and broken,
      adhere to what is left
            of a hayload—

two long trailers loaded
      with stout, bulky bales
            now blackened, smoldering

just off the road to somewhere.
      Wet, red firetrucks and hoses
            cross beside the load.

The trailers collapse onto darkened rims—
      all tires have melted in the heat.
            We roll the windows

for the acrid smell to verify
      our eyes, craned at the violent
            rupture in the path,

incredulity in eyes and voices
      as we ask. By the look of things,
            here’s destitution.

For miles down we question
      cause and effect but cannot
            understand.

We imagine the driver’s joy
      when heading out that day
            with a farmer’s load—

The hope of recompense
      for all expense and sweat
            has come to this.

All along the miles now—we feel
      the rapture of the driver and the farmer,
            then the rupture of the load.