What can I say that has not been felt before?/

What wonders to my soul within can be conjured up this evening over those Plains?/

Take your fingers and walk across the map just a few inches/

Be there this night in spirit if not in person/

Smell the dust in the air, the inevitable bustle of traffic/

To the movies, crammed in the seats with friends;/

To the grocers, by the spotlight of a lamp, grit beneath your sneaks;/

To the party, noise that is raucous, art in abundance upon the white, white walls;/

To the Pub, laughter with smoke and music and golden elixir; makes me smile and shake my head every time/

Smell the air in the dust, the zoom of cars you do and do not recognize/

Dark trees; walks; houses lit from within on streets you are not to live on, but are still there within the walls; Quiobbs; squirt; bicycles, entreating yourself to desire for cigarettes that smell so sweet from years of not doing them ever before; how many times before this one as you go through the tunnel under the river; tractors; tracks; businesses with false fronts; girls; cars; leaves bowing gently in the yard of Guthrie; those futures calling out for your life as it could, should, would (would've been) be; my how the time flies away when you have your head down in the dirt looking at the shattered concrete, with a sight you never knew you possessed, looking for a revelation.../

© S. I. Mette