(transcribed from travel journal)
Cool morning in Minnesota,
hot cup of coffee, cigar lit
the hum of the central air
like white noise, simultaneously
erasing and highlighting
the suburban buzz –
workday traffic in freshly washed
newish model cars,
lawn mowers brushing
manicured lawns, housewives
and daughters home from college
walking the dog
in ass-sculpting power shoes.
in ass-sculpting power shoes.
From the other side of the door
my traveling boots are calling;
whispering in a language
only we know: there are roads
to stretch out and miles to make,
mountains to see and people
to meet, telling me
what I already know:
whether among friends or even alone,
the road is it's own companion
stretches out endless
beyond the land of 10,000 lakes,
beyond techno-hipsters
in former middle class neighborhoods,
beyond Poor Richard's Common House
and the exhortations of old friends
whose kind words
cannot keep me away
from dreaming of the Black Hills.