Illinois Returning

Coming down,

out of summer,

the same flat land

in no hurry to go places.

The next of kin are born

Where others have died.

Where others have sat

on the stoop and smoked,

passing around that good talk,

summers beside weaving glass mirrors

and spicy fireworks.

Little revelries like that.

And to everyone their own odd

religion, and to me, mine:

A red Triumph Bonneville T140

stands out from the yellowing land

a speck against God,

roaring.