We light up
our Marlboros
against the wind
against the throats
of our winter coats
we grow up
by the lakeside
and endless sky
against the tresses
of the Midwest
the people here
are made of glitter
of known fortunes
but I am of the dirt
of unquenchable thirst
the road sets my fortune
of which I’m at peace
the wind should
be so lucky
to wrap its fearsome
tendrils around me
and when the night
sings to the lonesome
to the beggars
and the thieves
I’ll be there among them—
but more righteous
with my lady next to me.