As I breathe the air
nothing comes to mind (but pigs).
Endless agrarian search
for a new way out.
Fields of aspiration
are dried by droughts of resource.
An ultraviolet beacon reminds them
of what’s possible and what’s not.
Dense packets of trees
keep the interest of the children of the corn.
Too bad the blue of the sky
can’t join the vibrant yellows and browns
of the state itself.
Dirt-filled realness of its frontier
gives the people reason for hints of unawareness.
Although happy alone,
suburbs wait patiently with open arms.
Someone’s unfinished business goes unspoken.
Who dashed what could have been?
“Tight quarters, huh?” says a man in rest area bathroom.