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Weston Bookhouse
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Between Fenders
Suppose I'll cash all of my earnings, rest these swollen eyes
Clear the foliage atop my car, let dry the insides
Write a memoir of the fall, in the Northeast and us all in the pouring rain
When the moon refills we will be back on the coast
When it's time to clip these hairs again
I'll hang my hat, my head
I told a keeper she'd be seeing me in line some day
Tipped my hat to the old shed and I drove away
Clipped by a gust of wind in North Dakota
That was 40 degrees colder than the heatwave I had packed for
But I warmed up to Madison
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And the girls in Wisconsin looking like I could get used to it
Finally to spending hours between the fenders
Driving through Pennsylvania in November
Pipe dreaming drafts of postcards I would never send her
We caught the ferry
And watched as god descended over Lake Champlain
Exemplifying all I've come to place my faith upon
Crusaded my new muse
Southbound along the Eastern Seaboard.
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