the metal silence
of an empty river town
still rings in my ears

boy dreams in big words,
looking out from the porch to the
pond growing algae

moon is alive with
vivid colors and pictures,
reflection of this

wake to the smell of
bacon frying up the hill,
grandma cracks an egg

this recurring dream:
rolling down the hill naked,
logs rolling behind

the trees are it all
and I might be part of it,
so I like to think

we built a treehouse
at the edge of the cornfield
and never used it

it was hot I remember
and I didn't like the sound of
the hammer on wood

I said it was a
cornfield, but it only used
to be a cornfield

now just mud and ruts
and a place to stand when we
feel introspective

when a good thought leaves
the mind and's not recovered
it ends up right here

rustbelt suburban
teenagers smoke and ride in
the dead of the night

when I close my eyes
riding in the backseat now,
I pray that we leave