Jack Kerouac, Journal Star,
You got nothing to say to me.
I see the sun rise over the oceans of your cornfields,
I’m all awash in the pollen of your salty spray.
I sit alone,
Alone,
Alone in the warm air of your early morning breeze, Central
Illinois.
You push the fabric of your carpet between my toes and
I breathe the sounds of your 17
year cicadas,
and your robins and your blackbirds.
I got nothing to say to you,
Early Summer Central Illinois.
I smell the smell of your late spring,
I can’t stand the onslaught of your
Autumn to come.
There’s Memorial Day, and
There’s Father’s Day (Which I can never remember) and
There’s Troy’s 4th of July, and
There’s the Pumpkin Festival, and
There you are, running away, Central Illinois Summer, and
I’ll be damned if you get away from me again.
