Actually
white at the knees

the place where
you used to cut them off

to let them
live a second life

as shorts

Living
if  you call it living

vicariously
through  you

a passenger on  every
trip

where
you always drove

I so wanted to be you
wanting

the rotting wagon tongue the
lunar dust

I wanted your west
your dying towns

the salmon that swam
upstream

and the girl that giggled and scissor kicked
in your drink

because

I'm a poet and what might
have depressed others

was lush and fertile landscape
to me

but when I traveled your America
I saw saw it

through much cheaper sun glasses
the kind

you might buy at a truck stop
or someplace

like Wall Drug
or an Indian smoke shop

with a neon war bonnet
and that

made all the difference

So many have accumulated over time
all stacked on top of each other

in an open cardboard box
not a bin

trucks sedans
sports cars

of red yellow
and blue

scratched and chipped
mementos

of a well worn
youth

Still there in a drawer
with other

baubles
knickknacks and what nots

I find you every time I look

and you
are still there

even though
the mirror tries to tell me otherwise

but like the needle

I have to look past and through
the creases the wrinkles

and through all the other junk
I've collected along the way

but you too
are

still there

And the sun is sunny
side up

with a yoke begging
to be broke

and lapped up with a nice greasy
piece of toast

no rain today because
I said so

what we project is all we will ever be
to those

who  will never take the time
to  really know us

A sleight a hand
trick of light

now you see me now
you don't you

fell for that one
got played for a chump

can I be honest

not if you're going to continue
insulting me