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.