Sitting on the front stoop
Of my suburban New Jersey home.
Middlemarch propped on my knee,
The provincial world of old England
Calling my heart back
To a place far less elegant.
My heart traverses over a thousand miles
To see that impossibly big sky
Expansive over the wide flat plains
Where I can see horizon to horizon,
Its rough beauty unknown to most but precious to me.
There’s a pungent whiff of cow manure
Carried on the south wind,
Unpleasant but not to my nose.
The south wind whipping hard
Knifing between the buttons of my coat
Transformed into a balm
In my memory.
Most precious is
The little ranch house
Opposite the open field
Humble and sturdy as its inhabitants
Who my heart longs for most.
[All this horror has this me back writing poetry again. Maybe shielding the nation from my awful verse will get the government to act.]