"But first, baby, as you climb and count the stairs (and they total the same), did you, sometime or somewhere, have a different idea?
Is this, baby, what you were born to feel, and do, and be?"

-Kenneth Fearing

Wednesday, June 2, 2010



You’ve looked for the myth of America

across every state in the union,

and you’re no closer to finding it now

than you were at six years old, looking out

the back window of a station wagon, believing

that corn fields ran under the whole length of the sky.

Now, you know that the highway

hides her broken back. It makes sense

to you, following the crooked spine,

that something  in your gut feels like glass breaking.

You stop for gas and look at everyone

under the bright and unconnected ceiling,

punching numbers, lifting handles, sticking nozzles into tanks

and squeezing. They look at their cars or straight ahead

caught up in movements that don’t require music.

And you can’t help feeling lost

driving out from beneath the lights,

the smell of gasoline still faintly on your hands,

because you know you’ll turn left to get home.

                                          -Brent Allard


  1. Thanks Jessie! Glad you like it!

  2. Your words nudged the wayfaring spirit of my bygone youth who, before completely waking, was quickly shushed by my rooted soul who also would choose to tag along, turn left and head back home.

    What a wonderful poem to wake to this morning. I enjoy excursions that don't require expending energy! You've got my "Follow" to see where else you travel.

  3. @Sharon

    So glad to hear you're following and happy i could contribute to a good morning for you!