the resulting angst of
traveling through
the dawn weary
the midday hungry
the evening suffering

a normal human existence
our bane
the baggage
where the normal people
live
in the midst of a cornfield

no bright lights
seeing no red carpets
crowds just chickens
and peanut fields
just us out here

not a crowd cheering no
home run heroes or
savvy dialects on a stage
Bravos, not a single hero
standing like Oz at the row

on the end of the acres
the row upon row of green
like it has been for generations
trying like Superman
or Whitman

to make sense of it
and we bend in the breeze too
easily,
though we may be as strong
as Confederates,
we  like to think so