Nebraska

Sometimes I wake up and feel Nebraska, the whole state sleeping hip-side on my sternum. I feel the endless roads parting the flood of corn

after a harvest. I rise in line with the straight standing ghosts, feeling fellowship alongside their dry family. We are

split ends of the dirt, empty of duty and purpose. I have no greeting for this day. I have nothing to say to the sad souls of my friends that are stretched

so far that the tension is almost shouting fill me, fill me How can this state be so long? So, nothing

But somehow that nothing is just sadness you can't name, a Grassman rumored-beast that passes barely through the edge of a photograph

yet can draw everything into its shadowy stride. I drive Nebraska on the double yellow line till it disappears, like birthday candles blown out.

A gas station ahead looks hopeful. Hours and hours till I arrive to the pumps all off, not a soul in sight.

The road side sign flickers a fading gold like a quitting moon. Nebraska is the continued drive,

the needle resting on the orange, prescriptions in a cabinet, a co-pay. Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio.