A center stripe on such a road would be no more than affectation, The prospect of two vehicles on the same stretch of this blacktop Which ambles from nowhere to nowhere, old logging path Morphed into a convenience for fishermen or bird watchers Heading to the odd bits of Adirondack Park land Scattered higgeldy-piggeldy in its path All but a mathematical impossibility. Indeed, the fog lines are barely visible, a series of dots and dashes Along the crumbling berm of the shoulders, And the signs testifying to the calamitous curves ahead Are faded and pock-marked In testament to generations of pellet-gun marksmanship And twelve-ounce projectiles. There remain the odd traces of the byway’s former usefulness: Rusted blades or unevenly-spoked wheels Left behind by ancient logging outfits, The odd abandoned hunting camp, and here and there, Visible through gaps in thick, ancient stands of pine (Having outlasted the original settlers and logging concerns Through the sheer stubborn implacability of biology), You might see an anomalous abandoned bus up on blocks, And there are those who have sworn they have seen them Adorned with curtains in the windows, But that is most certainly a trick of the light, A mis-apprehension of something half-glimpsed By the drivers as they sped by.