Poet at the edge

Gray and warm this Christmastime —

not the intense cold of upstate Illinois —

it’s like Wisconsin there most of the time.

Escaping was the easy part, surviving,

now that’s been another thing altogether.

It’s like mountains of Florida, an uncanny dream,

a partially digested thought or bad weather.

What I didn’t know then is still out of reach

but it doesn’t matter and it’s set aside.

I was that grade school kid everyone wanted to teach:

Vacant eyes, straight horizontal mouth, from a graphic novel.

So, when I tell you I wasn’t in the room when it happened,

that could be true, until the story begins to unravel.

Then, I’m back on State Street, it’s Chicago, Marshall Fields windows,

it’s Christmastime and I find myself contemplating

the mountains of Florida again.