Psychic Soil

Last week while traveling,
I stopped where a bronze historic plaque
announced to me that I
was on the very site
of the westernmost naval battle of the revolution.
So, I looked around me, and then I looked at the earth.

I wondered:
What if in those days people were as hot for psychics as they are now?
What if they wouldn't act without a go ahead from one who sees ahead?
What if you,
O Soil that still remains,
would have answered those questions
flung to the future?
What would you say to that soldier-boy
when he lifted a handful of you, sifting, and asked,
"Is this patch of ground worth the shedding of my blood?
Worth the ending of my life?
What will my descendants do with the gift of it?"

Would you tell them, O Soil, what I see?
Would you say,
"Well, someday, there will be a small truck stop here.
People will traffic along the way,
--because US 41 is a decent 4-lane highway--
But as for this spot,
well, I see it someday house
a small truck stop,
a lone diner,
and a 10-room motel.
The truck stop will offer things like showers and maps,
hot dogs will roll forever to nowhere under their warmer lights,
and big shriveled pickles sealed in juicy plastic bags will sit
under the shopkeeper's counter.
People will laze around here, looking vacant, waiting,
but not for anything in particular.
They'll sit with their tennis shoes propped on the arm rests
of the open doors
of rusty pickups,
all the while looking blankly at the window ads for liquors and lotteries
ice cream and cigarettes.

O Soil, is your silence merciful?
Or would the soldier-boy see even these
as his kinsmen?
Sadly, too much modern spin has gone on soldier-boy's motives
for me to find that answer
through my own investigations--
and the soil?
It is silent
both directions.