Queen Anne’s lace lines the slick black pavement bending
in the wind, they sway.
Far back in the left corner, behind the corn fields
a white house with black shutters peeks
through the maples.
Lonely miles curve in and out
of corn and soy beans — beaten, rusty mailboxes.
I rub the wild flowers on my face and close my eyes. My gut twists as pangs of memories
tenderly stroke my nostalgic, sentimental
mistaken childhood filled with chicken dumplings and blackberry cobbler —
my drunken father stumbling through
olive oil stained doorways.
Heroin and alcohol seep in the soil here