Even Underground

I'd like to watch the trees pass by in the darkness, but the TV reflects in the window, inevitable as Jesse James getting his bullet in the end. And Frank is brought to justice. And I wonder where I am besides north of where I was. Intermittently a weight falls over my arms, resting across my chest, and the ends of my eyelashes nervously hold hands. I mistake the cord of my headphones for a finger running down my cheek, am startled as it lightly touches the end of my chin, and sigh as it weaves a slow path down the muscles of my neck. Yellow light dances still between darkened forms, like racing horses from the sidelines, except that I move and they remain, mingling with the passing white orbs transposed over the landscape by reflection. 75 miles from Minneapolis and I'm aching still, with joy, with sadness, always bursting for every shifting change in emotion's direction, each feeling a straight-line gust that topples houses and leaves some with nothing or blows a longing sail toward warmer climes, toward open arms. I cherish each tear, whether beautiful or damned.

Tonight, the streetlights fall asleep, and I lay awake, ready.

- 75 Miles from Minneapolis