As You Go

Weekends are quiet and loud and
nothing
in between

the warmest part of you
the palm of your hand
over the mug of coffee

in between your legs
as you go. 

Tiny soap killed
dry purple knuckles

You keep bringing nothing you can

just work with what's there.

Going down the road
you found
a huge open field

green and
unused

and you drove out into it
just to turn around.

You parked and
looked up at the
stars

remembering
Kansas when

you could see what was coming.

You could see it for miles and miles.
Even fog hanging low
chains over the road

and you knew you would drive into it
and you knew you would drive out.

Now, you're getting closer to the mountains

and you can't see anything
until you hit it or
you don't.

The tracks you left there
were red and
bare,

and you hope the leaves have filled them in again.

You hope the grass is growing through.

And you're sorry
you couldn't stay longer.

You're sorry.

But you just couldn't stay.