On the Last Page

Carry me to the wind that is
sipping through the dirty melted sidewalks
and the deco palette, window lined
sky scrapers jutting up downtown

Blast my jangly indie pop
on your beautifully make-shift stereo
and please,
don't take this next exit.

Don't stop til the grass turns green
and there's buds on the branches
and the cows graze in pastures
of tall grains and hay

We'll assess travelers and towns folk
on each fork in the road
We'll find the best sandwiches
and follow our nose
We'll write a song for each truck stop
and meet a driver with a guitar
who knows just where to go.

But we won't get there until
we've seen every terrain and climate
and every farm and culty alternative
we needed in order to

lay down by a cassette player
powered by crank
and feed you red ripe tomatoes
picked from the vine,
with sweet rhubarb drink

And,
The breeze from the sidewalk
will come to rest among reeds
before it crosses the lake,
and waves through ducks' wings
past long strings of prairie and
to your settled face
and down my milky shoulder blades

Where
We can escape limits
on our passions, curiosities,
and self nourishment.
Where
We can find a way,
with homes built in our faces
that are as
permanent as the variation
                            in the clouds' formations