You cradled me in your arms,
Kiss me on my forehead,
Say the word I love you in my ears,
Then hug me while we’re both lying in bed.

You never leave me alone.
Instead, you lead me on my way home.
You are my inspiration.
That was never afraid to face your true form.

Decades passed, changes are too many.
Attitudes of others, truly a malady.
But your gift of love never becomes an envy.
You are the one who nurtured me, loved me completely.

Old men fascinated by teen *****
and the hues harnessed by high school hips,
I ask you to look at something corrupted:
yourself, this town, this world.

The town's lumber supplier has died
and daughters fight over dollars.

Greasy haired women, wearing denim,
smoking menthols and bruised with cheap make-up,
stand on fractured sidewalks.

I walk, wearing a Native American-ized fleece,
the Chippewa crush their cigarettes
and blink like lizards at me
because I wear bastardization,
but wash it.

Half the town smokes,
and if you ask the pastor,
the whole town smokes
because everyone's going to hell.


All the girls read John Green
and flip the pages because it's a cheaper escape than a bus ticket.

Plato said that everything changes
and nothing stands still;
these people will suffer,
their bodies will break down,
and they will die --
but what never changes is their hope
in eventual death.

What cannot change is my hope
in something more.