I have a bit of a blunt proposition for you:
let us move to Wisconsin or somewhere just as hidden
among soy fields and monotony;
let us leave our names behind,
the concrete slabs too heavy for our broken frames and silk rucksacks;
I am tired of fulfilling a Sisyphus contract, to be entirely honest.

I think that we could hitchhike from I-95
and drum our anthems on fleshy kneecaps,
our sights pulled away from the windows of some random Honda Accord
as scenes of purple mountains majesty paint themselves
on the insides of our singed eyelids.

Wouldn’t you love to skip along dirt roads
and forget the concrete jungles
that left painful calluses on your palms
and broke my left arm in a juvenile monkey bars contest,
complete with purple cast and a tablespoon of kids’ ibuprofen.
Pleistocene mulch would no longer plant itself
in our pink feet,
and the scars from past romps would heal.

We could lay in the high grasses until high noon,
until the moon rises high in the sky,
until it sinks behind our worn heels
and lights them with its cool flame.

Our minds could wander in Wisconsin,
wily teenage worries abandoned in favor
of punk-rock philosophies.

Maybe we could even make up that alt band
you dreamed of at sixteen,
as blandess is the birthplace of creativity;
you could pick up a flea market guitar,
and I could sing with a newfound, folksy humor.

We could do anything, and we could do nothing.

That’s the glory of something over the turnpike.

Just shake my hand,
those callouses scraping my crepey skin
and forming a blood bond like no other.

No signature required.

Leave your post stamps on your pock-marked kitchen counter.