eighteen years lived
in shy monotony in
my town where I
couldn’t breathe

where I was born in
the hospital right next
to where my doctor
fills my prescription for
anxiety meds

where summers are
the colour of the sunflower
fields that I drive past
on my way to work
and smell like the
lilacs my mother trims from
our tree out back

where winters,
though laughably mild,
are petrichor and
taste like fresh oranges

where we have a tunnel
for frogs to safely cross the road
and turkeys consistently block traffic
and if the wind is blowing right
all you can smell
is the manure that gives us
the reputation of ‘cow town’

lady-bird is right
who would ever
voluntarily
move here?

all those times
we sat in the patchy grass
rolling down the steep hill
outside of the community theatre
and eating fries
we moaned and complained
“**** this town”
“there’s nothing to do”
we begged the universe
for spontaneity
and yet
when I had to leave
all I wanted to do was
find excuses to stay

I guess
boredom is safety,
safety for my anxious mind
no risks required in
cow town.