O Midwestern Girls
with your brunette pony tails,
too baggy jeans and aloof
shrug toward skyscrapers,
sing your pale-toned songs
in high pitched squeals.
Tell me your tales of work
on farms or life in the suburbs.
Let me be the poet that lives
inside you, in the Earthy void
where now subconscious dreams
wait out late night corn field bonfires
and the strong thick jaw lines
of cute, dumb-eyed farm and frat
boys with their shovel-built muscles
and tattered and creased-brim ball caps.
Cast the repetition and thrust
of their hot beer breath from you.
Come, read the stories in the stars
with me and find your song
in the silent power of the soil
on your worn shoes and grass
that stains your jeaned knees.
America has poured her history
into you in hope you'll embrace it,
in hope you'll see the poetry in the dust
kicked up by herds of wild horses, in the thick
heat of summer air and in the irony
of snow-covered black moonless nights.
Let your awkward notes slip
into the lazy country sky
until they become the wink of stars
offering dreams to the empty prairie.